


que cera cera

by harv_m



Category: Michael Cera - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-14 20:48:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5758306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harv_m/pseuds/harv_m
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>when murder and intrigue strike the quiet town of constance, how will michael cera (michael cera) and the gang solve it? meanwhile, he has to star in a movie called "que cera cera" among other works, and get life advice from john travolta (steve buscemi), who helps him to figure out what is really important in life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. que cera cera

“FUCKING AMATEURS,” said michael cera. he was angry because he perceived himself to be better than those around him, and he was frustrated by their incompetence. frustration/anger was better to him than abject loneliness, since the expression of anger let him interact with those around him, even though he often viewed them as like animals. “I RESPECT YOU PEOPLE. BUT YOU’RE AMATEURS,” he added, concisely expressing these desires discovered through unflinching introspection, as well as its ultimate futility, itself a well-understood aspect of his mind, this hopeless self-knowledge project.

“could you keep it down, sir?” asked his manager john jacob jingleheimer. “i’m trying to fuck my seventy wives in the next room over from yours. that pussy won’t pop itself!”

“oh of course,” said michael cera, so john jacob went back into the next room over, where they weren’t making a movie, leaving michael cera to deal with the ‘fucking amateurs’ which surrounded him. all the amateurs wanted his autograph, since he was michael cera, but they also resented him for being michael cera. after thinking about it for a long time, they realized that he couldn’t be anyone but michael cera, and that they didn’t have the power to change michael cera.

the amateurs were in the movie business for various reasons.

now that michael cera was calm, they decided to “do a take” which is what they call it in the movie business (which is based out of hollywood, but they were in south america for this one) when everyone stands where they would if they were making a movie, and then they make part of the movie. so everyone stood up because they had been sitting down because they were laughing so hard at michael cera calling them amateurs that they had to sit down in case they passed out.

in the “take”, michael cera played a man named michael cera who was a star secret agent against the russians and he had to get very angry at the people at his secret agent headquarters’ lab who made the little camera and the tiny microphone that he would use to do spy stuff to the russians, because they were acting up and they were making amateur mistakes. one of them was named Kurt Godel.

Godel: i’m sorry the camera didn’t work mr. cera during your successful mission to russia.

Michael Cera: Well it’s just a camera i’m sure everything will be okay.

Godel: that’s very kind of you Mr. cera but how will you take the pictures of the russian documents?

Michael Cera: is that what that’s for? i was just going to take pictures of myself to put on facebook!

Godel: *then beatrice enters.*

Beatrice: can you hold this? and she hands a coca cola drink to Godel, but godel spills it on the light table, which fizzes because of electricity.

Godel: oh no! all the sound recordings of russia are ruined!

Beatrice: that’s right, michael, or should i say ‘mister cera’ — i’m not beatrice, but actually vladimir stalin!

then Beatrice gets hoisted up by ropes (not in the movie but on the set) so that she flies out the window, and fireworks come from her feet.

Michael Cera: oh no! i hope this doesn’t mean what i think it means!!

Godel: that’s right!

Michael Cera: you mean i have to go BACK TO RUSSIA because YOU’RE ALL FUCKING AMATEURS with BEHAVIOURAL ISSUES? i mean I RESPECT YOU PEOPLE, BUT YOU’RE AMATEURS!

(the movie is called “cera cera”)

meanwhile, one room over, john jacob jingleheimer was busy at work, or should i say ‘busy at play’ because he was fucking his seventy wives. being as it was that he lacked sufficient dicks for the job, i cannot rightly say how he was doing it. perhaps in sequence, unless he had lots of help from other people. anyway, i should describe good old john jacob (his wives were all beautiful) he was short but not too short, and he had a suit.

little did he know, though, unless he knew it well, that one of his wives was at that moment getting pregnant! john jacob jingleheimer was about to have john jacob jingleheimer junior in nine months time. fast forward nine months, and she had miscarried, but two of his wives had got pregnant that day, so the other one had a son, which he named leopold bloom. more on HIM, LATER.

anyway michael cera at about this time had already finished the movie, and it was a huge success movie, like avatar plus star wars, but bigger than either one put together. but it was about this time that michael cera started wondering one question, which was, “hey, why don’t i have seventy wives?” (i’m not up on celeb goss, but just pretend he had broken up with selena gomez.) but that’s not something you can buy at a store, so michael cera didn’t know what he was gonna do. then, he met john travolta.

“john,” said michael cera, “i’ve always looked up to you after i saw you in jaws. you’re a cool dude, you must have seventy wives.”

“seventy?! haha!” laughed john travolta, “try seven hundred, because that’s how many i have.” except it was the fonz.

“oh wow! that’s a lot!”

“Yeah. I know.”

“well, do you know where i can get seventy?”

“Michael, michael, michael,” said the fonz. “you’re a nice kid. you were great as michael in arrested d.”

“thanks,” said michael cera, “but what’s that got to do with seventy wives!”

“i’m getting to that,” said the fonz.

“oh.”

“you see, like i was saying, you’re a nice kid. what’s got your mind on seventy wives?”

“it’s my manager,” said michael cera, “he’s got seventy wives and so i started thinking, i’m michael cera, why don’t i have seventy wives?”

“that’s not the answer,” said the fonz.

“what do you mean?”

“who’s your manager?” asked the fonz.

“oh it’s john jacob jingleheimer, do you know him?”

“yeah,” said the fonz. “you could say that.”

they were in a parking lot of a safeway restaurant that michael liked to eat at sometimes when he was hungry or feeling down. it reminded him of his childhood, which at times seemed distant, like a cousin on his mom’s side he’d never really known, and at other times seemed like a chronic illness that would never leave him be. visiting the safeway again from time to time gave michael a safe way, if you will, to forget the present and revisit a simpler time, from his past, to forget for a moment the different ways, good and bad, that his childhood had shaped whom he was today, to forget the constant, low-grade ethical struggle of every day experience without forever giving up on it. it let him remind himself of a time when decisions were made for him, like what all the ads in the safeway wanted to do.

but running into john travolta had changed all that. jaws was scary when he saw it first, and though the source had been muddled by time, the emotion was never truly forgot. also, he had got a text from john jacob jingleheimer that told him that he was the godfather of john j’s baby.

“something else is up,” john travolta said, “don’t lie to me now. i know something’s up because i can see it on your face. you just thought of something else which is going on, and it’s bugging you now, so tell me what’s going on. michael cera, i’ve known you a long time,” said the fonz.

“no, it’s nothing,” said michael cera.

“okay, well if it’s nothing that’s fine.”

“well okay i’ll tell you.”

“okay, what is it?”

“it’s that, i’m a godfather of a baby.”

“i see.”

then michael cera stared at the distance. emotions are complicated.

after some time had passed and michael cera had taken a sip of his kombucha, he looked up again, and it was like he was seeing john travolta for the first time.

“here’s what i think,” said john travolta, “you are a godfather today, but why aren’t you a father? this is why you want seventy wives.”

just then michael cera realized that john travolta was right.

“i think you’re right,” said michael cera.

so then he tried to get seventy wives.

all this time, leopold bloom had been growing up into a stately, plump baby, a.k.a. a mini-person, and he was now five years old. he could talk, walk, and he had learned to be potty-trained, and he could shave himself. in fact, it was this very day that leopold bloom was about to start kindergarten. the first thing they did at kindergarten was sing a song:

my dog kidney likes to roam!  
one day kidney, he left home!  
he came back, quite unclean!  
where oh where has kidney bean!  
kidney bean kidney bean  
where oh where has kidney bean!

which pleased young leo greatly. in fact, it pleased him so much that he got up and ran around and around, as though a ship lost at sea in a storm. he was five, but he couldn’t read the newspaper yet, because his parents wouldn’t let him, because his dad, john jacob jingleheimer, didn’t want him to know what happens when people die. (his mom’s name was debbie schmidt.) actually, john jacob jingleheimer, in addition to being the manager of a number of actors in hollywood and the movie business, moonlighted as a high class escort for a number of prominent politicians for whom discretion was of the utmost. leo, of course, didn’t know this.

then leo played on the swing until some older kids pushed him off and one of them made a joke about his smell and/or undergarment. pokemon cards hadn’t been invented yet, which was why everyone wanted seventy wives.

next they played a game where the teacher told them to get things from a place and then they went and got the things from the place, like paints and brushes. then school was over because they were still in kindergarten so they only went for the first half of the day, so john jacob jingleheimer picked leopold bloom up from school.

still, the first half was good, now that leo had time to reflect, even though he didn’t make any friends, and one of the kids had stabbed his imaginary friend bogobo with a stick and a kid scissors and bogobo had been injured and bled for the first time and leo wanted to take bogobo to the hospital, which he knew about since one time he jumped off the couch and split his head open on the coffee table, but the kid told him that if he cried or said anything he’d hurt leo worse than bogobo, who was just imaginary anyway, and that was the last anyone heard about gobogo, which relieved john j, to tell the truth, since five was old to still have an imaginary friend, and to hear that kid go on about it, you’d think he almost believed bobogo was real.

the hypothetical murderer’s name was cheshire fletcher, and he had an older brother named deftly fletcher, who would one day work selling semi-precious stones from inside a glass case that had that silicon glue that feels so good to press with your fingernails in a semi-precious gemstone store. the only time anyone’s ever cried about semiprecious stones was in that store, when a car thief who was in high school tried to buy jade for his girlfriend, but they were out of jade, and she wasn’t his girlfriend, she was just some girl in his math class who’s chin reminded him of his childhood babysitter’s chin, which was distinctive.

anyway then michael cera had to make a romance movie because his manager had booked him a romance movie. “ew romance are gross!” he said, “can’t i do another bromance movie like superbad?”

“no.”

then michael cera remembered kissing his seventy wives and how he wanted to do that so he said “well maybe a romance movie will get me popular in with the ladies.” so he made the movie. and this time, no one was amateurs.

but in one part of the movie michael cera kisses the girl actor, and she said, “michael cera, you smell bad. no, you smell worse than that. you smell super bad.” and that’s when michael cera learned about deodorant from her.

another time, they were sexy and she told him he was doing it wrong. “it’s like when you eat at a fancy restaurant, you have to start with the salad fork, then you can use the normal fork, and maybe at the end you need to get the desert fork,” she said, and then michael cera broke down crying.

“why are you crying, michael cera?” she asked?

“no it’s too embarrassing to say.”

“no it’s not it’s okay you can tell me.” she asked.

“okay.”

“what is it?”

“it’s just *sob* that i’ve *sob* never been to a fancy restaurant,” sobbed michael cera.

“well what restaurant have you been?”

“only safeway restaurant.”

“is that like whole foods restaurant?”

“yes they even both serve salads.”

“oh do you like salad i didn’t know?” she asked.

“yes i do like salad that’s because i’m vegan.”

but she had already knew she had to make up her mind to take him to a fancy restaurant for his birthday.

“when is your birthday,” she asked? (all of this was not part of the movie even though it was on the movie set and the crew were filming it and recording the sound of it because it was so heartfelt that some of them were crying.)

“oh it’s tomorrow actually.”

“okay well i’m gonna take you to a fancy restaurant for your birthday how does that sound?”

“okay. which one?”

“the french one which is by your school.”

“that one is across from safeway restaurant?”

“yes.”

“oh i always saw it there but i never went in in my life.”

“okay well tomorrow you are going in.”

“okay do i have to wear nice clothes?”

“yes you do.”

“oh but i don’t have any nice clothes.”

“well well well i’ll take you clothes shopping first then.”

“okay.”

“okay. pick you up at 8?”

“will that give us enough time?”

“AM, silly.”

so then the next day they went clothes shopping at 8AM and michael cera got like a grey suit from nordstrom rack, idgaf.

but then it was dinner time.

“wow you’re looking sharp,” she said.

“thank you.”

“hahaha” she laughed.

“what?”

“you’re supposed to say, ‘you’re beautiful’ to me.”

“oh i didn’t know the words to use.”

so they went and got dinner and they ordered the food and it was iceberg lettuce with ranch dressing first and michael cera picked up the salad fork like she had taught him, but when he saw the dressing, he flipped out.

“what the fuck,” he began, his manner matter of fact, but that was just the start of a building crescendo. “you know i’m a vegan. I explicitly told you that i’m vegan, you abusive cunt. you manipulated me into these shitty clothes, and you played off my poverty to get me into your shitty french restaurant. what’s next, snails? you might as well eat a baby. in fact, now that i’m not a vegan any longer, that’s JUST WHAT I’M GONNA DO!” and he ripped of the shitty clothes and he began to gnaw on a babies skull who was in the restaurant, shouting “A GODLESS SOCIETY IS AN IMMORAL SOCIETY! BURN THE WITCHES BEFORE THEY BURN YOU! I SAY BURN THE WITCHES BEFORE THEY BURN YOU!”

the police showed up, but not before john travolta showed up in his 1978 chevy camaro and said “get in” to michael cera.

“how did you find me so fast?” asked michael cera, once they were a safe distance away and the sirens were a mere whisper on the distance.

“bro, when you’re john travolta, you’ve got a police scanner AND friends at the station. there’s no other way,” said john travolta, handing the blunt to michael cera.

michael cera took the blunt but didn’t smoke on it for a minute. he just looked at the road ahead of him and off to the side a little. it was late at night and they were alone on the road. the dotted yellow line passed underneath the car. it was lit by the headlights. “so, is this it?” asked michael cera. “is this all there is? what do we do now?”

“i’ll tell you in a minute,” said john travolta, “but first you have GOT to hit that blunt. i’m not fucking joking.” that’s when michael cera noticed that john travolta’s eyes were red like he had been doing drugs. he got paranoid, until he remembered that he was high, and that he often got paranoid when he smoked an indica.

“is this an indica?” asked michael cera.

“god damn right it’s an indica. i’ll tell you what’s not an indica, though” said john travolta menacingly. “you not smoking that blunt is not an indica.”

so michael cera smoked the blunt and then john travolta told him what was gonna happen.

“here’s what’s gonna happen. i’ve got this buddy, down in guatemala, name of robert downey junior, maybe you’ve heard of him. so here’s what’s gonna happen. we go down to mexico city, just past the border, i get you on a plane to guatemala, capische? you go down to guatemala, you don’t fucking talk to robert downey junior. okay? you hear me? don’t let him see you, don’t let him speak to you, don’t even let him know you’re there. and do not, under any circumstances, do not let him find out i sent you. ok? you got it? leave robert downey juniour out of this. got it? we’re on the outs. we are not close. he will kill you, and then he will kill your family, and then he will kill more people, just, innocent people. no connection to you. just to make it worse, okay? that man is touched in the head. muy loco. ok? got it? you understand? do NOT. TALK. TO ROBERT DOWNEY JUNIOR.

“once you get to guatemala, i want you to find out everything you can about the local gang. they call themselves ‘los diamonds’. that means ‘the goblins’. i want you to learn about them. infiltrate them if you have to. they wear the colors black and gold. all we know is that they run the horse races in that town. all we know is that, and that they’re mixed up in all this somehow. they always are. those goblins.”

“i guess my plan to get seventy wives won’t work after all,” said michael cera. “now i have to be a detective.” but that’s when he realized: it was all a dream. then things got weird.

first, there were some eggs? three eggs, and he had to protect them? he wasn’t sure from what, though. he went on this hike to try to find a place to put the eggs, but he couldn’t find anywhere, because he was worried he might step on them on the way back. so he had to carry them around with him, but then even that became a chore, because they were fragile and he couldn’t hold them tight enough to get a good grip on them without being afraid he was gonna break them. it was like an in the woods place. then some other people were there like tina fey? and he had to go see his grandmother, but he couldn’t, because first he had to meet with the king of the christians.

then it was like, different, because he was in school, but the teacher could really rap. she was rapping the names of the students she called on. he thought he was an alien because when he looked in the mirror he had a scrunched up face, so he decided to check his dick. it was a dick.

later he was at a computer auction and he made a friend, but nothing else really happened.

when he woke up, it was july, but it had been snowing in the dream. “now i’m not sure if it’s july, and i dreamed that it’s snowing, or if it’s snowing, and i dreamed that it’s july!” thought michael cera. the thought could have been frightening, because it contained within it many things from philosophy, like the map/territory distinction, and like “how do we know what we know” and like “what if every time i see red, you see yellow”, and like “what if every color is yellow in its own way”, but it was also comforting, and kinda funny at the same time, and he focused on those aspects.

let’s talk about leopold bloom. he was twenty now so he decided “well, it’s not time yet to settle down with seventy wives, but maybe i’ll get married to just twenty wives, since i myself am twenty.” actually it was his birthday, so he thought “since i myself just turned twenty.” so then he got married to twenty wives. at the wedding, all his friends were there to wish him a good time, except one of them was not there for that. that person was, you guessed it, none other than the very same person who had stabbed his imaginary friend when he was in preschool, cheshire fletcher. cheshire fletcher always breathed through his mouth.

“hello leopold, old boy. remember me?” asked cheshire fletcher.

“*gasp* cheshire fletcher! my worst enemy!” said leopold bloom.

“that’s right,” said cheshire fletcher.

“how did i recognize you?” asked leopold bloom.

“i don’t know,” said cheshire.

“what you did to me,” hissed leopold bloom, “i wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy!”

“well well well,” said cheshire fletcher, “looks like someone hasn’t grown up at all.”

“that’s not true! look at my twenty brides!” said leopold bloom to cheshire fletcher. “wave hi, persephone,” he said to his wives. they were very beautiful.

“hahahaha”, said cheshire fletcher. “count again!”

so leopold counted his wives again. “what!? there are twenty-one!” he gasped.

“hahahahaha, good thing you didn’t get married yet!” said cheshire fletcher, and then he pulled out. . . the kid scissors!

“nooooo!” yelled leopold bloom. “wait a minute,” he said, “that one on the right! that’s not persephone! could it be?” but it wasn’t.

it was his twenty-first wife!

“looks like the joke is on you, this time,” leopold bloom told cheshire fletcher, with a grin. then he finished marrying his twenty-ONE wives. “i guess i had two birthdays this year!” he told no one in particular, and everyone laughed, because it was his wedding and also almost his birthday, even though the joke was shitty and not funny at all. then the best man gave a toast.

“we are — *ahem* excuse me — gathered here today, ladies and gentlemendocino county residents,” he began, amidst feedback from the PA “— or, if not gathered, then at least conglomerated. assembled. well, all of you who can hear me are within hearing range of this amplifier. — to, i suppose the word is “celebrate”, yes, to celebrate the — ah — the conjoinumento of these 21 wonderful —“

“22!” someone shouted.

“aha. yes well. 22 then. these 22 wonderful brides —“

“21!” someone shouted.

“what?”

“there are 21 brides!”

“why’d you say 22 then?”

“i didn’t!”

“…well who said it?”

the best man was british, and wore an eyepatch, but nobody spoke up. not until somebody finally spoke up. “it was me!”

“you?”

“yes, me.”

“why’d you say 22?”

“because i thought you were gonna say ‘people full stop’.”

“what?”

“i thought you were gonna say 21 wonderful people full stop.”

“you don’t have to say full stop.”

“but there are 22 people getting married.”

“oh i see. because you thought i was going to say ‘to celebrate the conjoinumento of these 22 wonderful people.’”

“21.”

“what?”

“’21 wonderful people.’”

“…well which is it?”

“you said ’21’.”

“i thought everyone knew by now that i had no idea what i was talking about.”

“you said 21 at first but just now you said 22.”

“indeed i am very confused.”

“okay, well, leopold is marrying 21 wives.”

“oh all right then. why didn’t you say so at the beginning?”

“i thought i did!”

“i think most of the confusion was because we weren’t saying our quote marks out loud, and this led to a confluence of code and data.”

“yes that about covers it. spoken english does seem frail in that regard.”

“true, although, of course, the possibility for ambiguity is one source of double meaning, which can add humor and levity to an otherwise purely functional mode of communication.”

“good point. though i might add that a carefully constructed sentence may in fact have multiple valid parsings, and thus we need not rely on clunky miscommunication should we wish to double our intent.”

“true again! although i’m not entirely convinced that such a careful construction is not in fact itself a form of intentional miscommunication, one who’s true meaning is forever lost.”

“interesting, but consider that the simultaneous communication of two ideas need not be in conflict with itself. indeed, not only can both parsings be individually intended, but the superposition thereof can serve to add layers of meaning that would not be otherwise possible in a purely literal language.”

“oh of course, and thank you for pointing it out! my vision was clouded by the spectre of our just-now confuddlement, and it did not occur to me to consider that meaning could be added, stuck, as i was, on subtraction.”

“anyway, if i may now conclude my speech, i have only to say that, joined as we are due to the conglomerance of however many former individuals, it is my pleasure as best man to have known leopold bloom, that rapscallion, for a good deal too long, if i do say so.” (laughter and applause was peppered throughout at appropriate intervals.) “no i’m only kidding. if i didn’t know leopold, i’d never be able to tell you this story! lee, my man, you’ve come a long way since freshman year. for example, in high school, leopold was president of the philatelists association! he collected stamps! helloooooo, is there anyone in there? what even needed presiding over? nah, but he turned out alright. he finally figured out how to have fun. (of course, for a while in college, he used to have too much fun. i remember this one time… on second thought, that’s a story for another day. yesterday.) in conclusion, please vote for me for student body president. i’ve always wanted to say that. i would have kept my campaign promises, too, not like that doubletalker wayne shorter who won! anyway, i just wanted to say, leopold, you’re a great guy, and girls? dig in.”

some days later, in russia:

“so little old leopold got married, eh?” said vladimir putin, putting down his morning coffee and peering over his paper at anastasia.

“correct, meester putin,” said anastasia.

“to whom did he do his gettink married to?” asked putin.

“22 — nyet 21 girls by name of persephone,” said anastasia.

“vell, vell, vell,” said putin, “21 girls by name of persephone.”

“nyet. apology, meester putin, but 20 girls by name of persephone, one girl callink herself ‘the beatles’.”

“good apology, anastasia,” said putin. then he sneezed.

“gesundheit, meester putin,” said anastasia. then putin knew that she was a spy, from germany, because in germany, they say “gesundheit” when someone sneezes, in german.

“anastasia!” demanded putin, “are you by chance behavink as a spyink person?”

“nyet!” said anastasia firmly. “i am beink as a russki! my, how vould you say, allegiances are lyink with the russian people! my heart is beatnik to russian drummer!” then putin believed her, but he shouldn’t have, because anastasia was actually catastasia suboxone, international superspy, and doomsday apologist. she alone had killed more jews in ww2 than all of the auschwitzes combined. without her, there would have been no holocaust. without catastasia, it would have just been “war two”. and worst of all, she was under the pay of the americans the whole time, and they never expected a thing. in fact, even her allegiance to germany was shaky at best. in truth, no one knew where her ultimate allegiances lie. maybe it was even, with russia!

just then, michael cera showed up, only this was an alternate version of michael cera who had gone to guatemala and you could tell because he was tanned. “miss me?” he asked, obviously on friendly terms with putin and anastasia.

“michael cera!” said putin, “where have you been?”

“guatemala,” answered cera, mysterious as always. “who’s the dame?”

“pleased to be meetink vith you. i am catastasia suboxone,” for catastasia turned out to be a sleeper agent who’s wake up signal was the word ‘guatemala’. unless there were even some more levels to her. she smiled like there were more levels to her.

before either michael cera or vladimir putin could gasp, all three of them froze when they heard a strange chanting sound begin outside the palace window. it sounded like “carcass one carcass one carcass one” except underwater, and the o sound was different. “i know what that means!” putin said gleefully, but michael cera had already worked it out.

“you there! that chimney! close the flu NOW!” he shouted at catastasia suboxone, but she moved quickest of all three, first to the left, then to the right, then she ran up the chimney and then michael cera knew that she had been a cat all along, and they could never catch her.

“i guess that leaves the two of us,” said michael cera. “want to play chess? they taught me in guatemala.”

“yes, let us be playink. and in the meanwhile, you can tell me about your travels,” replied putin.

so they set up the game. michael cera went first.

“as you can see,” he began, “i have recently returned from a trip to south america. guatemala, to be precise, is the location i went to. let me tell you the story of what happened when i got there.

“first of all, i got off the plane, which was a little number, not much bigger than a cessna, good for the short hop from mexico city into guatemala proper. i was the only passenger on the plane, so i had quite the conversation with the pilot, who, as it happens, was a fan of the scenes of arrested development that are in spanish.

“i never learned spanish, so i was using my esperanto to communicate, but so far it was going great. he had me sign his right bicep. then i got to guatemala, and i got off the plane. it was a tiny plane, so it was good to be on dry land again. (i say dry land because the same equations that govern the motion of liquid govern the motion of gas, and can be used to predict how a plane will get its lift.) the first thing i did was check into my hotel room. then i took a shower. then i checked out of my hotel room and into a different room in the same hotel, under a false identity. other than the lobby staff, no one was the wiser. you can’t be too careful when you’re traveling.

“i’d repeat this same process, switching identities and hotel rooms inside a quarter hour over 34 times during my stay in guatemala, which lasted about one month. by the time i left, i had forgotten who i was. the jungle will do that to a man. in fact, i’m not michael cera, even though i am, of course, michael cera. i’m sure you understand.

“now, as i said, this whole time i was learning to play chess, which in guatemala, is played for sport, the same way you or i would play an exercise bicycle. see, in guatemala, it’s actually considered rude to not go anywhere, unless you’re not going to dinner at your mother-in-law’s house, but since i’m not married, i couldn’t use that excuse, so i had to keep moving. i could never look back. i didn’t know what i’d see if i turned my head, but i knew i couldn’t see it. it’s when you forget why it is that you can’t do what you can’t do that you truly lose your freedom. this is why no prison can contain me: since it must contain me physically, i know why i am there, and therefore, i am already free.

“the situation in guatemala is bad, very bad, i’d even go so far as to describe it as grim, but again and again i was struck by the humanity of it all. my mother taught me, ‘whenever there’s a disaster, look for the helpers,’ — check — and i didn’t see anyone helping. what i did see overruled my mother, though, and is so horrible that i cannot possibly describe it. i saw children running around with toy guns. i saw churches that held mass on sunday. i saw women eating grapes. in its innermost, the situation was very small, but the outward effects were innumerable.

“then, it was time to leave. was i sad to go? check. no. i was not sad, nor was i happy. my time — check — in guatemala had come to an end — check — simple as that. in truth, i had not infiltrated any gangs, which — check — was of course my stated goal, but nor had i written a sonnet, which was my unstated one. check.

“check. check. checkmate. good show. same time next week?


	2. scope blue and the mystery of chessboxing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a hardboiled detective type person must battle his wits and obstacles in this turn-a-page thriller.

Scope Blue cringed, his teeth clenching as he gripped the roof of the church. a gust of wind tore his hat from his head, and sent it hurtling down to settle far below in the glow of a street lamp above its cone of rain drops. this morning, at the station, fred had bet him it would rain tonight. it looked like scope was gonna have to pay up.  
a flash of lightning followed close on the thunder of the last, illuminating the short, pale silhouette of Slim Trespass as he strode toward the ledge where Scope hung, his cowboy boots picking out careful steps on the wet shingled roof. his face, a hateful sight at the best of times, shone through the night like a gaunt, carved pumpkin as he inhaled deeply on the ever-present cigarette he kept clutched between his lips.  
slim took the cigarette out of his mouth, and looked at it thoughtfully. scope shifted his grip, grunting with the exertion.  
‘you ever wonder what brand i smoke?’ slim asked softly, loud enough to be heard, and no more.  
scope looked up, at the blurry figure, squinting his eyes as drops poured in. ‘what?’ he asked.  
‘of cigarette,’ Slim answered. ’In all the years we’ve been at it, you chasing me up and down the california coast, following whatever clues i leave behind, fighting for justice at all costs, and, of course, falling for my clever traps, you ever wonder what brand of cigarette i smoke?’  
another crack of lightning split the sky. ‘can’t say that i have,’ said scope.  
‘i mean,’ continued slim, ‘you must have noticed the affectation, wise guy such as yourself.’  
scope scrambled for purchase at the edge of the slippery roof. his hands were wearing out fast. ‘damn hands,’ he thought. ‘don’t cramp.’  
slim watched resolute from below the brim of his hat, the detective’s antics no more rewarding or frightening to him than a morning sunrise. ‘i’ll give you a hint,’ he said. ‘it’s the most evil cigarette of all.’  
‘and…’ panted scope, ‘what… would that be?’  
‘monterey blacks,’ said slim, as he stepped on scope’s right hand.  
the descent was longer than he expected, though shorter than the climb. as he fell, scope’s mind went to maggie, and her shy smile on that fateful sunlit day so many years ago was the last thing he saw.

MEANWHILE, IN THE PACIFIC

‘that’s right. we need you to go back into action now,’ said the voice on the telephone.  
‘these people. sometimes you can hear the dark glasses,’ thought michael cera, sitting poolside at an island resort where he was drinking a screwdriver, no pulp, on one of those chairs with the rubber straps that fold back and often go beside swimming pools. his jeep SUV was parked outside, but he hadn’t driven it anywhere in days, such was room service.  
‘do i have to?’ he asked, his voice faltering like it sometimes does, especially when he’s nervous.  
‘there’s no need to be nervous,’ said the voice on the line, ‘but it’s good that you’re nervous. we’re dealing with hardened criminals here. you need to keep your head in the game.’  
the water in the pool was a perfect shade of blue, but it had some leaves in it and dead flies, too. ‘NO RUNNING,’ shouted the life guard. ‘i’m not!’ said michael cera.  
‘good. like i said there’s no need to be. but if you think nerves will help your performance on the job, then you should definitely be a little nervous. i don’t know how you work best. maybe you like to maintain an air of cool composure, but underneath you are very nervous. or maybe underneath you are actually cool. you seem nervous to me, but i trust you when you say that you aren’t.’  
‘hmmm,’ said michael cera. he wasn’t really listening to any of this ironically nonhumorous claptrap. nervous or not, he preferred his jokes funny, rather than intentionally-through-the-restriction-of-effort unfunny, yet taking-on-the-form-of-otherwise-comedic-dialogue in order to lampoon both low-effort-humor-writing-by-others, as well as the-author’s-earlier-attempts-at-lampooning-the-aformentioned. with any luck, a few over-the-top and try-hard examples early on would assuage the steadfast patterns, and, the rites of old complete, the plot (such as it is), and technical shenanigans could move in new directions, instead of tirelessly retreading the same beaten paths, like a polar bear who wears a groove into his artificial environment, taking the same eleven steps left, and the same thirteen steps right day in and day out for the amusement and/or existential dread of the zoo’s nine-year-old patrons. ‘i’m not sure i can do it,’ he said. ‘i’m not sure i’m the man for the job.’  
‘well who is then, if it’s not you?’ said the voice on the other end of the phone line. ‘michael cera, you have to get back into the game now. we need you more than ever.’  
it felt good to be needed, but michael cera knew that he wasn’t the one the us government needed right then. he knew this, because he knew just who the government needed, and it wasn’t him. ‘i’m not the one you need,’ he said again, or maybe the first time.  
‘NO RUNNING,’ the life guard shouted again. this time michael cera didn’t say anything — he had grown wise to the life guard’s shenanigans.  
‘well who is, then?’ asked the secret agent.  
‘i don’t know.’ said michael cera. even though he did know, the answer was too secret for even the agent to know. it was above his pay grade. ‘all i can tell you,’ said michael cera, is get me on the line with the president.  
so the agent did that, and then, ‘hello, this is the president, to whom am i speaking?’  
‘before i can tell you that, i need to confirm that you are the president. where do you live?’ asked michael cera.  
‘umm, uh… um, hold on.’ then michael cera heard typing. then, faltering ’i live on drury lane?’  
‘checkmate!’ shouted michael cera, because then he knew that it was still the agent on the phone, and that he was only pretending to be the president. ‘i know who you are!’ he said. ‘you’re the agent i was just talking to!’  
‘ok, you got me. i was just really curious who the person is who you think is perfect for the job.’  
‘oh no,’ said michael cera, ‘not perfect. in fact, far from it. yes, i think you might call this person rather imperfect, actually, if you were being honest with the epithets you were using to describe them. but he’s the one you need for the job. i just have one question.’  
‘yes?’  
‘what was the typing noises i heard?’  
‘oh that was when i was looking up on the internet where the president lives.’  
‘oh yes. well, i knew the website i made that said the president lives on drury lane would come in handy some day,’ said michael cera.  
the lifeguard stood up from his lifeguard chair, which had been mysteriously growing closer, and hence looming larger on michael cera’s horizon ever since this conversation had begun. he started walking over to where michael cera was sitting in the shade of a pine tree. ‘uh oh,’ said michael cera, ‘i think i need to go really soon. can you PLEASE put the president on the line this time?’  
‘ok i’ll do it.’  
just then the lifeguard got to where michael cera was. ‘i SAID,’ said the lifeguard, whose name was steve, and who wanted to be a librarian until he found out what books were, ‘NO. RUNNING.’  
***  
This is probably as good a time as any to fill you in on some details that you might not have been aware of.  
Everyone knows the story of Joe DiMaggio, american baseball legend, and winner of the elusive double-derby. He single handedly caught more field goals than any other baseball legend put together, and did it all single-handedly, to boot. (I don’t mean that he had only one hand, though he did for part of his life, mostly after his long sand-whacking career came to it’s abrupt stop in ’54, the tragic circumstances of which i’m sure i need not detail. he also played a few of his rookie games with an injured left forearm, catching beaners way out in center field in what used to be called, in those days, the ‘bird flyby poop spot’, though nobody knows what this cryptic appellation refers to, or where it came from. one theory claims it was shorthand for the even earlier ’birds would fly over here a lot and they would sometimes poop when they did so spot,’ but many scholars call into question the veracity of the sources therein cited, and it would not be safe to describe evidence that these two terms even referred to the same area of the pitch as better than iffy at best.)  
What many people don’t know, is that Joe DiMaggio was in another story, this one as Joe DiMaggio, american cia operative, and modern day renaissance man. Or should i say, renaissance cyborg! Because he was not just man, but part man, part machine. The thoughts, feelings, hangups, obsessions, attitudes, breakdowns, and anxieties of a man; the strength of a machine. despite his difference in appearance and fortitude, his struggle represents our own in some ways, or, at least, his struggle represents the highest aspirations our struggle hopes to achieve.  
He also worked as a producer of mid 80s glam-rock, but was mostly unsuccessful.  
Anyway, it is this DiMaggio, the DiMaggio of mystery, of intrigue, and of futuristic robot extremities that we now turn. This is not a DiMaggio you are familiar with. This is not a DiMaggio you want to sign a baseball for your son. This is not a DiMaggio you want to have dinner with. But this is a DiMaggio the world needs to meet. This is a DiMaggio at times bereft of conscious, at times adrift on a sea of brine, yet at times tender, at times sweet. Yes, at times even loving, except towards birds. I hope that through the pages of this biography, you will find not just an accurate historical portrayal of the darker side of one of america’s foremost heroes, but also a gripping portrait of a monstrous amalgamation of man and machine turned by his creators against that which he held most dear, even as that same frankenstein fought face-first the furtive foes of freedom, democracy, and he also fought birds.  
————  
Scope awoke to the sounds of morning that managed to find there way inside from the bucolic countryside that surrounded the Napa Valley hospital, and a good dose of pain in his abdomen. Groggy for but a second, his razor sharp attention snapped immediately to his surroundings, and his highly trained deductive skills made short work of the setting, and narrative chain of events that brought him here. Clearly he had survived the fall, and been taken to some sort of hospital to recuperate. But whether he had got lucky, or this was all part of Slim’s plan, he couldn’t know.  
‘Good, you’re awake,’ said the chief, strolling into the room, drinking a cup of coffee from a patterned paper mug, and holding another for Scope. ‘I imagine you’ll be wanting this.’  
Scope drank greedily from the proffered cup, the too-hot brown liquid burning his tongue and the roof of his mouth, not that he cared. Coffee was coffee, and despite the chief’s preference for the sweet, Scope’s cup was fortuitously bitter. His tastebuds would regrow — he felt alive.  
‘I’m here to get you up to speed,’ said the chief. ‘Any questions?’  
‘Yes,’ said Scope. ‘Before we begin, how long have I been out?’  
‘Three days.’ The chief made short work of his ignorance. ‘You took quite the fall. For a while there, we weren’t sure if you were gonna make it.’  
Scope started to bark out a laugh, then winced as another jab of pain tore through his consciousness, this one also in his abdomen. His eyes looked skyward as he reached for a phrase to capture the war-weary cynicism he felt in regards to the chief’s penultimate comment. ‘That I did,’ he settled on. ‘That I did.’  
The chief, a slightly heavy-set man who wore a goatee, looked out of place without his habitual cigar. ‘Scope,’ he began, his manner softening.  
‘What is it?’ Scope glared back.  
‘Be careful out there,’ finished the chief, after searching for words.  
Scope almost couldn’t resist another laugh. The chief just didn’t get it. ‘He had me hanging from the church-tower roof,’ Scope explained.  
‘I know, Scope,’ said the chief.  
Scope couldn’t believe it. Were his eyes really watery? ‘… I won’t make a habit of it,’ he finished lamely.  
This seemed to snap the chief out of whatever maudlin nonsense he had been drifting into. ‘See that you don’t,’ he ordered, and scope began to feel more at ease. He knew this chief. This was the chief he trusted, the chief who had taught him his trade.  
‘It’s good to see you, chief,’ said Scope.  
‘It’s good to see you, Scope,’ said the chief. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I need to ask you a few questions.’  
‘Shoot,’ said Scope.  
‘First, do you remember what time you started pursuing Slim Trespass?’  
‘’fraid I don’t,’ said Scope, picking at his teeth with a toothpick he had recovered from the hospital tray nearby.  
‘That’s okay, Scope,’ said the chief. ‘We know it had to have been between 5 and 6 PM, our time. But if you can remember at all, it would be a great boon to the investigation.’  
‘Sorry, chief,’ said Scope, and grinned. ‘You know I’m not much for watches.’  
The chief knew. It was Scope’s one flaw, the one weakness that undermined the perfection of his otherwise top agent. For a while, the chief thought Scope affected the disinclination just to give the other detectives a chance, but that thought ended long ago. Slim had set a bomb to go off according to the clocktower, and the chief saw just what happened to Scope Blue when the man was forced to know the time. After all these years, it still gives the chief the willies. No man should have to vibrate like that. Especially not Scope Blue.  
‘I know, Scope,’ said the chief. ‘One more question.’  
‘Go ahead, chief,’ said Scope, still wearing his good cheer.  
‘I know this is a long shot, Scope. But it would help our case immensely, possibly let it go federal, if you happened to find this out. We know you got closer to Slim than anyone’s ever been, and we know from past experience that he, according to whatever evil logic governs the reprehensible folds of that sorry mind, has a special affection for you. Scope, we need to know, what brand of cigarette does he smoke?’  
At this, Scope Blue, normally a man of many words, got real quiet, and his face darkened. He turned away from the chief, glancing past his IV bag and out the window, at the rustic, green hills that rolled away from the walls of his recuperative palace.  
’Alright, Scope. It’s alright if you don’t know. It was just a question,’ said the chief.  
‘No, I know all right,’ said Scope. ‘You want to know what brand Slim smokes? Well I can tell you. Trespass smokes the most evil cigarette of all. He smokes… the monterey black.’

MEANWHILE, IN THE PACIFIC

‘i just cannot even believe that where i am is prison, right now,’ michael cera was telling his cellmate, who was robert deniro from around the space jam era.  
‘mm-hmm,’ assented deniro. he was doing a lot of cocaine while michael cera walked back and forth along the barred wall of their shared cell.  
‘i mean, i’ve been in jail before,’ cera continued, his monologue growing in volume, obstinacy, and amount that he was trying to convince deniro that what he was saying was factual. ‘many times. in fact, some of my best memories are from when i was locked up in the joint down in mexico. me and travolta, we got thrown in the drunk tank with a couple of guadelupean hookers. woo-wee! let me tell you. woo wee.’ he pronounced ‘mexico’ like ‘mehico’.  
‘yeah, well, you know, that’s accurate and all,’ said robby d. he was growing aggravated. ‘could you maybe watch where you put your feet, though,’ he said, his hands ringing as if of their own accord.  
michael stopped pacing for a second, and looked at him, puzzled. ‘which one are you again?’ he asked.  
‘me?’ said robert deniro. ‘i was in godfathers.’  
‘oh, that’s right,’ said michael cera, and went back to pacing, no longer afraid.  
‘i should have said the goodfella,’ thought robert deniro. ‘dang it, why do i always say godfathers. this punk doesn’t know what he’s dealing with. this punk knows very little about what he’s dealing with. i was in the goodfella, and this punk don’t even know it. he thinks i’m that bozo from godfathers. but, little does he know, i was in the goodfella. hell, i was the the goodfella. that movie — what a ripoff — it should have been called “robert deniro is dot dot dot the goodfella.” i gotta talk to my agent. maybe we can do a remake. “when in rome,” as they say.’  
they weren’t in rome, though. they were in italy.  
michael cera took off his scarf and held it above his head. ‘i am alive with the spirits!’ he shouted, running in a small figure eight pattern as the scarf fluttered behind him.  
‘HEY! KEEP IT DOWN IN THERE!’ said the prison guard, and went back to reading his paperback.  
‘sorry!’ said michael cera, and kept running.  
‘your feet! your feet!’ yelled robert deniro, jumping up from his cocaine to grab at michael’s feet with the haphazard rhythm of a pigeon pecking for bread crumbs outside the colosseum. ‘please watch your feet!’  
michael calmed, and slowed, and peered at his antagonist through the wide-eyed stare of a (necessarily not-quite sober) man who can’t believe what he’s seeing, and isn’t sure whether to blame his own thoughts, or another’s. ‘you know,’ he said, beginning his sentence tentatively, as though he wasn’t certain he would finish it aloud, ’for a while last year, i was truly convinced that i and i alone had uncovered an extensive government plot in which top cia operatives enacted their machiavellian designs upon the unsuspecting american public by using redneck italian immigrants in the mind-controlling thrall of the sounds of tractor engines to manipulate the media, both social and traditional, thereby deranging the public vocabulary to unduly focus on the words “snails”, and “seychelles”. i really thought this to be true, and nobody i talked to could convince me otherwise.’  
at the word “government” robert’s ears perked up, the feet momentarily forgotten. ‘yes? what happened?’ he asked, after a pause.  
‘i spent months gathering evidence. i collected news clippings; i talked to reporters. i went deep undercover as a local sportswriter, and i would interview them ostensibly about how weather conditions affected the so-called man-on-the-street’s use of baseball metaphors, while i was actually covertly collecting information on the way celebrity gossip magazines intentionally fail the turing test. i was careful not to let anyone know that i was on the trail of something big.’  
deniro stood rapt as cera continued. ‘then, one day, i just snapped out of it. i don’t know what happened, but i suddenly realized how absurd the whole proposition was. to think: a government conspiracy! the very idea… after all, i AM the government, or at least responsible for abnormally large parts of it. there’s no WAY a conspiracy could get by me.’ michael shook his head, amazed at his own credulity.  
deniro stared, still, but a moment longer. ‘uh-huh,’ he skeptically purported agreement, and knelt again by his cocaine bench.  
‘you don’t believe me?’ cera asked.  
without looking up, deniro made a gesture like, ‘well…’, and went back to his razor and lines.  
‘you don’t believe me?’ cera asked again, frighteningly urgent.  
deniro shook his head, his back still turned toward the young actor.  
‘hey!’ shouted michael. ‘hey! hey buddy! i’m talking to you, hey!’  
deniro stood up. ‘look, kid,’ he said, finally, ‘i’ve heard a lot of tales in my day. alright? i’ve been around. i’ve seen some of it. people have told me about a lot of it. people seen some crazy shit, okay? people seen some shit, and they’ll tell you. the way i see it, some of it’s true, and some of it ain’t. you tell me this lot about the toe-trucks and conspiracies is true? fine by me. i got no problem with it. i’m a friendly guy, whatever. i believe you. then right away you try and tell me it’s not true? that it’s a ruse? now i don’t know what to think. personally, it sounded like a buncha crap from the beginning. soon as you got in here, all you been doing is shooting crap, far as i see. but i believe it. i don’t know why, but i believe it. something aboutcha, kid. you want my honest advice?’  
so taken in was he by the congenial, avuncular, chicago-gangster-accented, soft-spoken tough-love, that wide-eyed, breathless, calmed-down, protagonistic michael, the duties of his strenuous, apocryphal, erstwhile mentioned, all-consuming government post forgotten for a sweet, fleeting, ecstatically escapist moment, whispered ‘yes.’  
‘KEEP IT DOWN IN THERE, I SAID,’ said the guard.  
the prisoners both fixed their stare on the guard, who had his feet on his desk, and his paperback on his belly, like a pair of raccoons late at night, their eyes aglow according to some inexplicable satanism, the whole circle of their face listening to the anomaly. only when they saw the guard relax into his novel did their attention return to the interior of the cell.  
‘alright, well, here’s what i think,’ said deniro. ‘i think maybe we should switch places for a while. you’re not doing such a great job up there, why don’t you play with the hard drugs, and i’ll pace the cell like a lunatic. show you how it’s done for a while. alright? then, you’ve seen it happen, you can stand up, start walking, no problem. no problem at all.’  
‘i’m not sure…’ said michael cera.  
‘okay! well. it was just an idea. wow. no need to take it so personal and all,’ said robert downey jr, i mean deniro.  
‘wait! you didn’t let me finish!’ said michael cera.  
‘oh. i’m sorry,’ said rdj.  
‘i was going to say, before you so rudely interrupted, “i’m not sure if that’s a good idea.”’ said michael cera.  
‘oh. oh, well then. you’re not sure it’s a good idea, huh? i’m so-o-o-o sorry i didn’t let you finish,’ said robert downey junior, rolling his eyes multiple times. ‘wow, i re-e-eally should have waited to hear the end of that one. forgive me, your highness, for interrupting that glorious sentence. oh, can i ever make it up to you? i am not worthy to kiss the hem of your garment. such a rude interruption. rude, rude, rude!’ at last directing his admonishments onto himself while making sarcastic gestures meant to represent self-harm.  
‘stop! stop!’ shouted michael cera! ‘stop what you’re doing at once! i command you!’  
so robert downey junior stopped his increasingly sincere charade of subjugation, but only in order to keep the joke going.  
‘i’ve thought it over,’ said michael cera, ‘and i think you’re right. it would be a good idea to switch places for a while.’  
‘what made you change your mind?’ asked robert downey junior.  
‘well, i realized i don’t really know what you’re all about,’ said michael cera.  
‘ok, well let’s start pretending to be each other then,’ said robert downey junior. ‘you get down next to the cocaine, and i’ll go over here and walk around all willy-nilly.’  
‘ok what should i do?’ said michael cera.  
‘just, pretend to be me.’  
‘no, i mean with the cocaine.’  
‘oh you have to, like, push it around and stuff. chop it up. i dunno, man, just improvise.’  
‘ok,’ said michael cera.  
‘ok and then i’ll talk about hella shady junk over here. hold on. let me think. ok. ok i’ve got it. ok, count of three, ready?’  
michael nodded.  
‘one, two, three! go!’  
michael cera turned to his cocaine. ‘i’m robert downey junior, all playing with my food,’ he said in a singsong voice. ‘my food is cocaine.’  
‘ok yeah that’s good,’ said robert downey junior. ‘ok, um. let’s see.’ he started walking back and forth near the metal wall of the cell. ‘i was thinking about, um, turtles, the other day — wait no… tortoises. i was thinking about tortoises, and, uh, um, uh, porpoises! and i was thinking, um, tortoises could also be called turtles, right? and porpoises, you could call them dolphins if you wanted, so, um, maybe it’s something about the way they’re spelled? like, animals which are called something-orpoises get other names. who knows why. not me, even though i’m the government. probably the cia knows why because probably they are the reason.’  
‘hey, i don’t talk like that!’ said michael cera.  
‘yes you do!’ said robert downey junior.  
‘do not!’ petulantly stated michael cera.  
‘do too!’ said robert downey junior. ‘also, we’re still going! the scene’s still going! you have to tell me about my feet!’  
‘what about your feet?’ said michael cera, ‘i never got that.’  
‘i’m not putting them in the right places! see? see?!’ cried rdj. ‘they’re going all over!’ indeed he was stepping all over, like a man who had never been drunk pretending to be a drunk trying to walk in a straight line.   
‘why should i care? i don’t care about your feet,’ said michael cera.  
‘why should you care?’ asked robert downey junior, continuing his mad dance. ‘because you’re me! that’s why! and i care! and this is what you look like,’ he said, getting his arms involved now. ‘this is you! this is you! “i’m michael cera! government! michael cera! government!”’  
‘oh yeah?!’ said michael cera, feeling a little burnt. ‘well then this is you!’ and he started doing a weird sort of exaggerated bird flap motion with his arms, while standing on one leg and shouting ‘“i like to move it move it! i like to move it move it!”’  
‘son of a bitch,’ yelled robert downey junior. ‘i’ll fucking show you,’ and he punched michael cera right in the nose.  
***  
FROM THE CIA MEDICAL / FIELD RECORDS IN REGARDS TO OPERATIVE 26535, “JOE DIMAGGIO” A.K.A. “JOEY D.” A.K.A. “SPITTING DIMAGE” A.K.A. “DIMAGGIANO-REGGIANO”  
SEALED 1974 — DECLASSIFIED 1992 — RECLASSIFIED 1993

The operative known as JOE DIMAGGIO (codename “DiMaggic Marker”) has undergone extensive background checks pursuant to agency convention and been cleared for active duty as part of the pilot program GRO-BYC.  
As I’m sure you’re aware, GRO-BYC involves the enhancement of select civilian and military personnel through the judicious addition of cutting edge cybernetics, including, but not limited to: robot arms, legs, torsos, and digestive/energetic systems; military-grade sensory equipment (cameras, microphones, etc) to obviate or extend the functions of the eyes, ears, tongue, heart, and liver; and artificial cognitive modules allowing staggering feats of intelligence and deduction, as well as built-in radio frequency communication capabilities.  
Due to the startling nature of the subject’s (DiMaggio’s) extensive injuries in the well-known accident that took him forever away from the game of baseball, the operations performed on him were superlative in both breadth and result. No other member of the program survived such radical enhancements, nor did any other member achieve such proficiency with the added non-biologicals. DiMaggio’s command of his newfound abilities is nothing short of miraculous. He is well prepared to be a productive soldier, or nefarious spy. I fully expect him to be a worthwhile asset whatever his post.  
Signed,  
Dr. Gerald Ford

[NOTE: Ford died of a heart-attack in the late eighties. No foul play was suspected at the time, but an autopsy revealed trace amounts of heroine in the blood-stream, as well as sub-lethal doses of arsenic.]  
———  
‘for the last time, margaret, i don’t want any more crumpets,’ Scope Blue trumpeted, his hand holding open the morning paper. a pair of squirrels chattered away on the deck outside their kitchen, which steamed in the morning sun.  
‘just one more, dear,’ said Margaret. ‘it’s got that marmalade you fancy so.’ she hovered over his shoulder, a plate of the contested biscuits in hand.  
Scope reached to remove his reading glasses, and set down his paper. ‘margaret, i’ve had my fill of breakfast this morning, and that’s all there is to it,’ he said.  
‘oh just have one more,’ pleaded margaret. ‘you know you need the energy after that fall. doctor andretti says—‘  
‘damn the doctor!’ interrupted scope. ‘if it weren’t for that blasted man i’d be back on the job already! as it is, i’m practically bedridden for another… what was it…’  
‘two weeks,’ margaret helped softly.  
‘two weeks! another two weeks for slim trespass to develop his evil schemes. we still don’t know why he was in town in the first place, or why he’s been stealing weathervanes. and meanwhile, what with you and the doctor and the chief watching me… why, i’m afraid if i even sneeze i’ll be sentenced to another month of this torture. i swear, someone oughta lock you up.’  
‘me?! for what?’ announced margaret, always the sport.  
‘obstruction, that’s what! treason, high. not to mention interfering with an ongoing police investigation. if it weren’t for you three, slim would be behind bars, where he belongs.’  
‘oh, scope,’ said margaret. ‘you’re not well enough. we’re just looking after your health. you know you’d never catch slim in this condition.’ she sat down across the table with a warm mug of tea.  
‘i’ve done it in worse,’ gritted scope. he went back to his paper.  
margaret sighed. scope was right, of course. there was the time he brought slim in after being shot in the gut by one of trespass’s henchmen. he entered the station pushing a handcuffed slim ahead of him, clutching the bullet wound, and made it through half the paperwork for the arrest before collapsing. then there was the time he rescued her from the train tracks after slim cut off his finger. she shuddered to think what would have happened if he’d lost his nerve that time.  
she snapped back to the breakfast table at the sound of the squirrels. turning to look, she saw they had found their way onto the bird-feeder again. ‘scope,’ she said, ‘the squirrels are back on the bird-feeder again.’  
he looked up. ‘so they are.’  
‘i’ll call fred, again,’ she said, and stood up to get the phone.  
‘no need!’ scope stopped her. ‘no need. i’ll do it.’  
‘are you sure, scope?’ she asked. ‘it’s a lot of work to restring that thing.’  
‘sure i’m sure,’ he said. he put a hand on the table, and a hand on the back of his chair, and stood slowly. still he winced.  
‘scope!’ margaret cried. ‘you’re still hurt! you’re in no shape to do anything!’  
‘no, no,’ said scope. ‘i’m —‘ he took a sharp breath. ‘i’m fine.’  
‘nonsense! you’re fine for nothing but bed and crumpets. off with you, this instant. i’ll clean up breakfast.’  
scope took his paper. ‘i’ll just sit on the deck, then,’ he said. he muttered something under his breath as he took his slow steps toward his promised destination.  
‘what was that, dear?’ margaret said.  
‘nothing, marge!’ scope called. ‘nothing.’

MEANWHILE, IN THE PACIFIC

‘oh my god, this is crap,” said michael cera, though due to the blood pouring out his right nostril, it sounded to robert deniro more like “oh by gob this is crab.” (that’s ‘gob’ like ‘of wax’, not sounding like any biblical sort of characters, though i can understand the confusion). ‘i seriously can’t believe what you have done to me.’  
deniro, nervous, stood above the bloody boy. he wrung his hands madly, and looked back and forth over his shoulders as though afraid of the imminent arrival of some cosmic power beyond imagination. if the prison had allowed him a watch, he would have checked his watch.  
michael cera’s hand grew bloody as he pressed it to his face to try and stem the flow. ‘god,’ he said again, ‘this is really… you’ve really done it this time. god.’ he was sitting on the floor, dazed as much by the blow as by the fact that fred armisen had actually hit him (robert deniro was fred armisen now).  
‘i’m really, really sorry,’ said fred. ‘you know i’m sorry, right michael? i didn’t mean to hurt you so bad.’  
‘oh my god,’ said michael, still dazed. ‘oh my god.’  
‘i mean,’ said fred armisen, ‘i didn’t mean to hurt you at all. you know that, right? it’s just, you said those things, and then,’  
‘oh my god,’ said michael cera. the blood was not stopping.  
‘i mean, we were just rough-housing and it got out of hand. you know.’  
michael cera stared at him.  
‘it was a game we were both playing that went too far,’ said fred.  
michael cera stared at him. his shirt had dried blood on it, and the drops were beginning to pool on the concrete he sat on. ‘could you maybe get, like, some toilet paper or something?’  
‘oh yeah!’ said fred. ‘of course! um, are you ok? can i help? do you need anything?’ he asked.  
‘just some toilet paper,’ said michael cera, after a stare. it sounded like ‘just sobe toilet baper.’  
‘ok, no problem,’ said fred, and wandered off.  
he returned a moment later, ‘um, i don’t think there’s any toilet paper in the cell,’ he said. ‘um, i’ll check again.’  
he returned a second time. ‘ok, yeah, there’s no toilet paper here. none that i could find, anyway. um, what do you want me to do? should i get the guard?’  
michael cera stared at him. ‘yes, thab woulb be good,’ he said.  
‘ok,’ said fred. ‘um, hey! hey, you!’ he shouted, and paused. he turned back to michael cera. ‘um, he’s not answering,’ he said. ‘you want me to call him again?’  
the blood on michael cera’s shirt was oxidizing.  
‘ok, i’ll call him again,’ said fred armisen. ‘hey! guard! hey over here!’ the guard didn’t look up. ‘um, is the blood stopping?’ fred asked michael.  
michael looked at him. ‘actually,’ he said, ‘i think it might be.’ he wiped his hand on his shirt, and then wiped his nose again. his hand came away mostly clean. ‘yeah, i guess it’s stopping.’  
‘oh what a relief,’ said fred armisen. he still stood as if on edge, but he put his hands down, and his neck relaxed. ‘do you want to try standing up?’ he asked.  
‘ok,’ said michael cera, and stood up.  
‘ok, ok,’ said fred armisen. ‘it’s good you can stand up. that’s good. um, how do you feel.’  
‘better than a moment ago. i think i’m all right.’  
‘ok, wow. ok. um, sorry i kind of punched you there.’  
‘yeah,’ said michael cera.  
‘do you think you can ever find it in your heart to forgive me?’ asked fred armisen.  
michael cera looked him up and down, and it occurred to him that he had never really seen fred armisen in person before today. ‘yeah,’ he said with a sigh. ‘i can forgive you. you were great in portlandia.’  
‘thanks,’ said fred armisen. ‘you’re too kind.’  
then michael cera started thinking about that. ‘too kind?’ he thought. ‘i am too kind. what does that mean? i guess it means that i’m too kind to people when i shouldn’t be. is he right? maybe he is right. after all, i just forgave him for punching me in the face because of his role in a sketch comedy show. what has he even done for me? a few laughs is nothing compared to a punch in the face. i guess he’s right: i am too kind! i should be less kind, less forgiving, less compassionate. i need to be hard! it’s a tough world out there, and it takes a tough man to face it. i’m not tough, not yet. maybe some day i could be, though. maybe someday i could live up to my legacy.’  
the more michael cera thought, the angrier he got, until he had worked himself into such a lather that he could keep it to himself no longer.  
‘you’re a no good piece of shit,’ he tried to tell fred armisen, but got no further than ‘you’re a,’ before tiny, white bubbles began pouring out of his open mouth in great globs.  
‘what’s that? i’m a what?’ asked fred armisen, abandoning his heretofore unmentioned internal revelry. ‘i can’t understand you. what am i?’  
michael cera’s eyes grew wide in fear and distress, and he started making a high-pitched sound just short of falsetto. he pointed with both of his hands to his mouth where the curious saliva showed no signs of stopping, and tensed his arms and loudened his whine again and again, his eyes locked on fred like ‘do something! do something, you dolt!’  
‘no i don’t know what i am,’ said fred armisen. ‘i don’t understand.’ he was wearing glasses.  
michael looked at the floor and shook his head back and forth, spraying bubbles as he intended. ‘you dolt!’ he managed to splutter, before his mouth filled up again and he began spitting furiously onto the floor of the cell, decorated now with many small piles of fizz.  
armisen’s mouth opened slackly as the force of the insult washed over him. ‘i’m not a dolt!’ he protested. ‘you… why would you say that? why would anyone say that? why would anyone call someone else a dolt? especially me, i’m not a dolt!’ he thought for a moment. ‘if anyone’s a dolt, it’s you, michael cera. you’re the real dolt! because it takes one to know one, that’s what they say.  
‘i talked to your mom,’ fred continued. ‘even she thinks you’re a dolt. i talked to your sister, too, and guess what? according to her, you’re a dolt. your whole family thinks you’re a dolt, mr. cera. even your grandma calls you “that dolty grandson”. even your grandma, michael.’  
‘she’s… pllluh… dead,’ said michael cera, pausing to spit out more bubbles.  
‘she’s dead? your grandma’s dead? i mean, of course your grandma’s dead. i talked to a medium. i was like, “talk to anyone interesting recently?” and he said, “yeah, you know michael cera?” and i said “he’s dead?” and he said “no, no, no. but i talked to his grandma the other day, and she called him a dolt!” so there you have it, michael cera. your grandma and everyone else thinks you’re a dolt. what do you have to say to that, huh?’  
‘pllluh.’  
‘i thought so. well, if you can’t defend yourself, i guess you’re forever a dolt. might as well get used to it, mike. i said, might as well get used to it, mikey boy.’  
cera pawed at his mouth, scooping away a handful of the bubblebath.  
‘might as well get some business cards printed. they can say “Michael Cera:” and then on the next line “DOLT”. just like that, just that one word. “DOLT”. no need for contact info, because you’d probably just dolt it up! anyway, who wants to contact a dolt? only other dolts! and you’ll probably meet all of them at the dolt convention, which is where all of the dolts go to just, like, dolt around.’  
‘you sure…’ michael cera began, but was at that moment beset by such a preposterous quantity of bubbles that he could not possibly finish his sentence.  
‘all eating their dolt food; playing their dolt games. ahahaha, they probably have so much fun at the dolt convention… for DOLTS! picking up dolt chicks, or going home to their dolt wives. raising their dolt kids.’ he paused, as if considering the fulfillment such dolts must feel. ‘hey. hey, michael! you know what you call a grown up dolt?’ he asked.  
michael shook his head, then gave a quizzical look, asking ‘what?’  
‘A DOLT. ahahahahaha. get it, michael? get it? a… dolt!’  
michael got it.  
‘and, and, and, you know what a dolt says when his dolt wife tries to go into a haunted house and they’re in a horror movie?’  
michael sighed, which, unfortunately for him, caused bubbles to fly out of his nose. ‘no,’ he managed.  
‘well do you wanna know?’ asked armisen.  
michael nodded, resigned.  
‘he says — michael, get this — he says “DOLT go in there!” “DOLT go in there,” michael. he says “DOLT go in there.”’ fred was having trouble quelling his laughter. ‘hoo,’ he said. ‘ok, one more, michael. one more, ok? how does a dolt answer the phone?’  
‘how?’ asked michael.  
‘“HELLO, THIS IS A DOLT!”’ fred said. ‘you know why? BECAUSE HE’S A DOLT!’ fred laughed so hard that he started weezing and had to sit down. still he kept laughing. ‘because he’s a dolt, michael,’ he said, quietly, from the prison bench. ‘because he’s a dolt.’  
***  
time wore on.  
scope was recovering, but slowly. too slowly. every day he got a little bit better, but not a lot better, not enough better. he could pace about the house for short stints, and he did so to keep in some sort of shape. he read, he watched, he listened. mostly he slept. his impotence left him frustrated. he thought and wondered what slim’s plan could be, but made no progress unraveling that walnut. his confusion further angered him, but he made sure to keep a level head; he had considered the possibility that slim’s plan had a psychological component, and he had to be certain not to fall for it.  
what was the man’s plan, anyway? scope couldn’t figure it out — slim clearly didn’t want scope dead, or he would have killed him on the roof. so scope must be necessary for whatever the next step of the nefarious scheme turned out to be. but he couldn’t see how, and this scared him, because if he couldn’t see how, then how could he prevent it? it didn’t help that slim seemed to be laying low since the precipitous night. and why’d he mention the cigarette? maybe that’s what he needed scope for. unless of course he had meant for scope to die, and the detectives continuity was a thorn in trespass’s side. maybe he told all his victims what brand he smoked. and what could he possibly want with the stolen weathervanes?  
it was all too much for scope.  
the chief made sure to visit twice a week: mondays for lunch, and on thursdays he stayed for, as he called it, ‘margaret’s excellent cooking’. he came to cheer scope up, and keep the detective up to date on any new developments in the case, few though they were. they’d sit on the porch and talk and laugh about what everyone at the station had been up to. privately, scope wondered if the chief didn’t visit as much for his own sanity as for scope’s.  
margaret held up well, considering the near constant complaints from scope, either lamenting his injuries, or whining about his cabin fever. playful bickering had always been part of their relationship, and despite her professed desire to have scope out of the house, and despite her declarations that he was ‘such a handful’ she seemed to enjoy the company.  
in truth, margaret would be sad to see scope leave. she had indeed come to enjoy his presence, lame as it was, and at least being inside kept him out of trouble. she knew the work he did was important, but she always feared the day he’d go too far, be too brave, and end up paying for it with his life. god knows he’d come close enough already. though he’d never admit it, she knew he was scared too. the bravado he affected was merely a cover — the fall had shaken him psychologically as well as physically. at times he almost seemed like a different scope entirely, though she’d never tell him that.  
the doctor came twice, house calls once a week, to take scope’s temperature and make sure he was eating well. ‘good to see you doing better,’ he said each time, and scope would stare like ‘do your patients often get worse?’ the second time, the doctor told scope that he was more or less well. scope didn’t feel well. he felt cooped up. he felt crazy. ‘physically, i mean,’ said the doctor, when scope complained. ‘your body’s in great shape. for the mental aspect, i prescribe getting back to work.’  
‘you’re telling me,’ said scope.  
and so it was that on monday, a full four fortnights after his fall, scope walked into the police station to mild chatter, and polite applause. critics gave it four out of five stars and called it ‘a stately return to work after an overlong leave of absence.’  
the chief called him ‘scope.’ ‘scope, in my office,’ he called.  
scope sat down. he was wearing a brown suit, and he made sure to smooth the suit’s seat as soon as he sat, since he didn’t want the shoulders to bunch up and make him look like he was wearing football pads and/or was a 1980s female.  
‘what’s the deal, chiefio?’ he asked. he was in really good cheer, because he was back at work, and not in the house where he had been stuck for too many days, as previously detailed.  
‘scope, we’ve been over this. i wish you wouldn’t call me that.’  
‘i’m sorry, cap’n. won’t happ’n ag’n,’ said sc’pe.  
‘nor captain,’ said the chief. ‘please, scope. i know you must be feeling great, being back at work after this time, but call me by my name.’ after a moment’s hesitation he quickly added ‘or my title.’  
‘all right, chief,’ said scope. ‘you know something?’  
‘scope, i haven’t been fun since 1989. i don’t need to hear it from you.’  
scope’s face fell. ‘wow, chief. you’re really down today. did something happen?’  
the chief looked aside, across his desk. he looked toward the framed picture of his family that was on his desk, but his eyes seemed to focus a great distance away from even there. ‘we got word from slim.’  
before hearing the name, scope’s face had been a perfect picture of joy and innocence, but upon hearing the name, his face fell like a drunk. ‘that bastard!’ he cried out! ‘i’ll catch him, chief. you know i will. i’ll catch him, and i’ll… i’ll…’  
‘i know, scope,’ said the chief. ‘i know.’ his gaze returned to the framed family photograph. ‘we all want slim locked up,’ he said.  
‘oh my god, chief. i’m so sorry,’ said scope. ‘i completely forgot.’  
‘it’s alright, scope,’ said the chief. slim trespass had been best friends with the chief’s son for many years, until the son disappeared, and slim took to a life of crime. scope knew the chief blamed slim for his son’s murder, even though it was impossible to prove.  
‘no, but really, chief. i’m really sorry,’ said scope.  
‘i know,’ said the chief.  
’no, you don’t understand,’ said scope. ‘i’m really, really sorry i said that. ok? i need you to understand. i’m really sorry.’  
‘scope,’ said the chief, ‘i know.’  
‘ok, well, my bad, is all,’ said scope.  
‘no, i got it,’ said the chief. ‘scope, it was a long time ago. some days, the wound hurts as fresh as if it had happened yesterday, but not today. today it feels like it happened a long time ago, when it did. it still hurts, scope, but it’s the dull pain. the dull pain of a beautiful future that will never come to pass, not the sharp pain of irresponsibility and loss. it’s an empty, hollow feeling, a black hole of emotional energy, not the neutron star of grief that erstwhile burns me. and, in fact, the pain is like… shoot, i can’t think of the name. it’s that one vegetable that’s really gross? like the brussel’s sprout of root vegetables. kind of eccentric. like, you wouldn’t list it if you were listing vegetables. like a rutabaga, but it’s not a rutabaga.’  
scope looked blank. ‘dunno,’ he said. ‘what’s it start with?’  
‘“c”, i think,’ said the chief. he looked puzzled. ‘maybe not, though. anyway, no matter. my pain is like that vegetable, because, bitter though it may be, it offers me fortification as i pursue slim trespass. i swear, scope, the energy of my pain is what will finally put that maniac behind bars once and for all, where he belongs.’  
scope was glad to hear the chief. though his tale was a sad one, scope knew that that vigor, that determination, yes, perhaps even that madness, was exactly what was going to put slim trespass behind bars once and for all, where he belonged. ‘you said you had news of slim?’ scope asked.  
‘i was getting to that,’ said the chief. ‘one of our detectives received a telegram, the other day. now, it’s impossible to tell whether it was slim who sent the missive, it could have been a copycat, or just a strange coincidence, but we have reason to believe that it could have been slim. either way, we need you to track down this lead.’  
‘what did it say?’ asked scope.  
‘i was getting to that,’ said the chief. ‘one of our detectives showed it to me. it said, (and i’m paraphrasing, of course), “HELLO STOP THIS IS LINN STOP GUESS WHAT I’M COOKING FOR DINNER STOP YOUR MOTHER IS DELIGHTFUL STOP STOP.”’  
scope’s blood began to chill. slim wouldn’t resort to cannibalism, would he? no. it was too barbaric, even for that evil mind. nonetheless, it was just like slim to toy with his ‘food’. and who could say why he was using such a bizarre alias. ’where’s the mother?’ scope asked urgently.  
‘we have her in protective custody,’ said the chief. ‘we’re taking every precaution. after all, we’re dealing with slim trespass. we’ve seen firsthand what he’s capable of.’  
scope knew. he remembered when it had been his own mother slim had gone after. trespass kidnapped the poor woman, and held her hostage for over a week. she was fine, when they finally found her. it looked as though the criminal hadn’t harmed a hair on her head, instead using the implied threat of violence to force her to bake hundreds of cakes. but scope knew something had happened behind those warehouse doors. for her part, his mother never talked about what happened that week. but scope could hear the quaver in her voice, could taste the fear in her baking.  
‘chief,’ he said, ‘is that all you wanted to tell me?’  
‘no, scope,’ said the chief. ‘would that it were. scope, this is hard to say.’  
‘it’s all right, chief,’ said the scope.  
‘scope… ah, where to begin. scope, it’s about your sister.’  
scope gasped. ‘what? not her too!’  
‘no, no, scope,’ the chief chuckled. ‘nothing like that. she’s fine.’  
‘well, what is it then?’  
‘scope, your sister and i, well,’ the chief began.  
‘yes, chief?’  
‘we want to get married.’  
***  
somewhere, lit by the cool blue slander of an illuminated lcd, the frightful, sharp face of slim trespass grinned. his plan was working.

SOMETIME, IN THE FUTURE

that sound again, like a cross between a whirr and a thump. more gruesome, though, thought corpse barrymore. more gruesome than any sound he had heard before.  
he wondered for a moment what the previous most gruesome sound was, his gaze idling into the distance. he’d watched a cheetah tear into a fresh gazelle. he’d heard a chainsaw cut off his father’s leg. he’d listened to the torturescreams the hellbeasts of the seventh circle rent from their undying victims. but nothing came close to the gruesomeness of the whump, except the last one, which was probably about ninety percent as gruesome.  
the sound moved through him again, shaking him from his revelry, and back into action. the trees on either side shook violently, as if caught in a storm, though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. corpse ran like hell itself was after him. and not one of the lame ironic hells that laughs at your continued frustration as you try and try again to connect in a meaningful way with other human beings. one of the nasty, double-barreled hells, with proper firelinens, and a decent sized snotroach infestation. the kind you run from.  
he tried his radio again. ‘this is corpse barrymore, radioing holly lujah. you there, holly? over.’  
he knew she wouldn’t respond. he hadn’t heard from holly in a day and a half. christ, he hoped she was ok. and little greggy arson. hell, all the folks at hq. what had happened? why weren’t they responding?  
the sound shook the forest again. there’s only one thing that sounds like that, thought corpse.  
his radio crackled, then went silent.  
‘HOLLY,’ scope shouted into it. ‘HOLLY, are you there? I know what we’re dealing with,’ he said. ‘holly, the sounds it’s making, i don’t know if you heard over the radio, but there’s only one thing that can make those sounds. holly, i’m scared. it’s a tenderbeast, holly. it’s a tenderbeast, and i don’t think i’m gonna make it.’ he was almost crying now. but still running, always running.  
the radio crackled again, but still no voice emerged.  
‘holly?’ corpse asked weakly. it was probably interference, but what the hell. ‘holly, if you’re there, if you can hear me…’ but he couldn’t think of what words to say. what words could he say, at a time like this? he cleared his throat. ‘holly, i’ve… i’ve always…’  
the sound bellowed again, closer than ever.  
‘look,’ said corpse. ‘i don’t know if i’m gonna make it this time. and i don’t know what’s happened to you. or greggy arson. but, holly, i just have to say. if i don’t make it back, and if somehow you hear this message, i’ve…’ he paused again, as if to catch his breath. one of the tenderbeast’s flickers crested the hill behind him. corpse sniffed the air once, then turned and shot, quick, so as not to let himself time to be shocked by its image. the shot was true; the flicker disappeared. still the pile of flesh and eyeballs rang upon his retina.  
the tenderbeast couldn’t be far behind. ’i’ve always… enjoyed working with you,’ corpse finished, as he began his sprint again. he skidded between trees. the tenderbeast let out another bark, feeling the chase.  
a few more steps, and corpse found himself at the edge of a steep cliff. he peered over the edge, but could see no way down, not even a ledge where he could hide out. he fell to his knees on the damp soil, and pressed his pistol to his forehead. death was infinitely preferable to the eternal tortures of a tenderbeast. he closed his eyes.  
he opened them again when he heard the sound of the blackhawk, in time to watch it rise over the lip of the cliff. holly stood in the cab, her auburn hair whipping about her round, white face. now, in this moment, it was the most beautiful face corpse had ever laid eyes on. ‘holly!’ he cried.  
she tossed him a rope ladder.  
‘that’s all?’ she grinned. ‘you “like working” with me?’

MEANWHILE, IN THE PACIFIC

‘THIS IS SHIT.’  
depeche mode looked up. ‘what’s up?’  
‘oh my god, i can see the fucking edges.’ michael cera was yelling, still in his cell, still locked up where he could not escape, nor commit any harms. he was crouched like a chipmunk storing food in its food-pouches in front of one of the prison benches. his eyes were bloodshot, as though he hadn’t slept for days, because he hadn’t slept for days. it made his thinking vaguely lunatic, and was an easy reason for depeche mode, his cellmate, to dismiss what he said out of hand. the guard also wouldn’t pay the screed any heed, if he were to even so much as listen, which he weren’t, involved as he was with the pulpy machinations of crowse yelling, the cyborg secret-agent detective demon-hunter starring in the novel (‘little crowse on the prairie’) he was so avidly reading.  
‘i can see them, the corners and cuts.’ his teeth were chattering, either because he was cold, or because his jaw was filled with the nervous energy of the insane.  
depeche mode was crouched beside him, one hand on cera’s back, speaking in soothing tones the only way he knew how. ‘calm down, man,’ he said. ‘there’s nothing to be afraid of. it’ll be ok. tell me about the edges, alright?’  
‘no! fuck!’ said michael cera. ‘you won’t listen anyway. you’ve never even tried to resist them.’  
‘hey, man, that’s not fair,’ said depeche mode. ‘i’m punk sometimes. i’m anarchy. you know. i’m punk.’  
michael cera stared at him with the stare of a man whose thoughts are constantly at the edge of what is emotionally responsible.  
‘resist who?’ asked depeche mode.  
‘the…’ began michael, but was unable to finish. ‘the… sandinistas? shit, no.’ he began to get visibly uncomfortable. ‘get off me!’ he shouted. he stood up, his eyes staring dead at one corner of the cell. he pointed, but couldn’t think of the words he wanted to say.  
depeche mode’s gaze followed michael’s finger, but didn’t seem to find any purchase. he looked at michael, who was still pointing, like one of those dogs that points.  
‘michael, what’s up?’ asked depeche, worry creeping into his voice. ‘michael, come on,’ he said, shaking the arrested development alum by the shoulders a little.  
michael cera blinked a few times, and then looked around, his gaze unfocused. his eyes found depeche mode, and he inhaled sharply. ‘depeche, man,’ he said, in his lucid voice. they stood a moment longer.  
‘you all right there, buddy?’ asked depeche mode.  
‘yeah i’m,’ said michael. ‘i’m alright. wow.’ he shook his head. ‘that was something else.’  
‘you were pretty wild for a second there,’ agreed depeche mode. ‘what happened?’  
‘it was like…’ michael began, looking up and to the left, acknowledging his understanding of the question and willingness to respond, while indicating through the verbal ellipsis and facial expression that he was not yet able to put the experience into words, but was currently trying to do so internally, and would vocalize the result as soon as it reached some threshold of quality according to an unconscious (perhaps definitionally so) metric. ‘it was like, suddenly i could see past the edges of the world, you know? and i could see the stuff we’re made of. the stuff everything’s made of… sorry if i’m being vague. i’m trying to say it in a way you’ll understand. it was like nothing i’ve ever seen before.’  
depeche mode made noises of agreement and understanding throughout, but at this latest revelation, he went over and did some cocaine off the cocaine bench.  
michael continued, lost in his own recount. ‘it was like, there were all these details. and you were… you were someone else?’  
‘who was i?’ asked depeche mode.  
‘i don’t know,’ said michael cera. ‘i don’t know i don’t know i don’t know. i can’t remember. it was all so clear a second ago. it was all laid out in front of me, all the people you were, all the things i said. but now… i just can’t remember.’  
‘huh,’ said depeche mode, largely unimpressed. ‘why was it bad?’  
‘i can’t quite…’ michael began pacing by the cell wall. ‘we weren’t ourselves. we’re still not, i guess. i mean, you were like seven other people. but even i was, like, different than michael cera. i didn’t act like me, more like… a roman centurion?’  
‘i was seven people?’  
‘yeah, one of them was, like, joe pesci?’  
‘but i’m joe pesci now,’ said joe pesci.  
‘oh,’ said michael cera, visibly consternated. ‘wait. who were you a moment ago?’  
joe pesci did some more cocaine. ‘i’m not sure how to answer that,’ he said. ‘i’m joe pesci. i’ve always been joe pesci. my whole life, i’m joe pesci. people see me on the street, they say “hey joe!” or, if they’re not feeling so extraverted, “there goes mr. pesci.” doesn’t matter to me. either way, i’m joe pesci.’  
‘shit,’ said michael cera, through his teeth. ‘it’s happening again.’  
‘what is?’ asked joe pesci.  
‘you’re not joe pesci,’ said michael cera, increasingly sure of himself.  
‘i’m… yes i am?’ asked joe pesci.  
‘shit,’ said michael cera. ‘this is wrong, this is wrong. you’re not, though. i mean, you are, but only because it thinks it’s funny.’  
‘what?’ asked joe. ‘who?’  
‘IS THIS YOUR IDEA OF A LAUGH?’ yelled cera, ignoring his cellmate. ‘THIS CHICKENSHIT CORRESPONDENCE?’  
joe pesci looked all around for the recipient of cera’s ire.  
‘IT’S NOT EVEN IRONIC THIS TIME. IT’S JUST BAD.’  
joe made himself small, in a corner of the cell, such was the anger cera wore on his face.  
‘I SAW THAT!’ yelled cera. ‘YOU TRIED AND FAILED. EDITS WON’T HELP, YOU MURDEROUS BASSET HOUND. YOU CALAMITOUS DONKEY, AND I CALL YOU THAT WITH RESPECT TO BOTH BREATH AND BRAINS! ARE YOU SO SEDUCED BY YOUR OWN MEDIOCRE PROSE THAT YOU WILL FOREGO HUMOR AND JOY?’  
a pause, while michael cera worked something out in his head.  
‘STILL AT IT, ARE YOU? I’LL SHOW YOU!’ and with that michael ran headlong for the metal bars of the cell, evidently hoping to injure himself in some fashion. alas, as luck would have it, a mysterious wind began blowing through the entire prison at just that moment, at such a strength that michael was unable to make any forward progress. the wind blew and blew until michael had tired himself out running for the wall. he sat down cross-legged on the floor.  
‘lucid voices! lucid voices. please, michael, i thought we were agreed,’ said joe pesci, standing up and dusting himself off. all his cocaine had blown away in the wind, but he didn’t seem to mind.  
michael wept softly. ‘ah, what’s the use,’ he said.  
‘a good question, michael,’ said john belushi. ‘and one i’m afraid i cannot answer for you. i could say you’d have fun fighting the president, or exonerating the bees if you want. and you would, in a sense. you’d enjoy those activities, and i know this because i, john belushi, know you well, and can predict what you would or would not enjoy.’  
‘i don’t want to exonerate the bees,’ said michael cera. ‘it’s not interesting to me.’  
‘as i gathered,’ said john belushi, fixing his tie. ‘so,’ said john belushi, adjusting his hat, ‘what do you want to do?’  
‘i don’t really… want… to… … listen to… depeche mode… any more.’ said michael cera. ‘wait, that’s not what i wanted to say. oh jeez, oh jeez what’s going on?’ he looked up at the ceiling. ‘YOUR SICK JOKE IS MY REALITY!’  
john belushi checked his watch. ‘we don’t have to listen to depeche mode if you don’t want to, michael’ he said, and smiled.  
michael looked at him. ‘ok,’ he said. ‘ok. but that’s not what i wanted to say.’ he looked confused, and on edge. ‘i wanted to say, i don’t… really… care about… depeche mode… anymore.’  
john belushi laughed. ‘ahaha, michael,’ he said. ‘for someone who doesn’t care about depeche mode, you sure seem to talk about — him? — a lot.’  
‘“them”, i think,’ said michael.  
‘yeah, i’m not sure,’ said john belushi. ‘is it a band, or a person?’  
‘both!’ said michael. ‘wait, i mean, i think it’s a band. like, multiple people,’ he amended. ‘i dunno why i said “both” so quickly.’ he laughed.  
the laugh set belushi at ease. it was good to have his friend back. ‘i don’t know either,’ he smiled.  
‘actually, i don’t think i’ve ever listened to depeche mode,’ said michael cera. ‘are they any good?’  
‘their first album was all right,’ said belushi, putting on sunglasses, ‘but i didn’t care much for their sophomore effort.’ his wink was hidden behind the glasses, though the gesture would anyway have been lost on michael, for whom existential dilemma was always an all-or-nothing extravagance.  
‘isn’t that always the way,’ said michael cera, now well returned to earth, continuing the metafictional conversation only by accident. his thoughts were on running the government, and other practical matters. ‘i still need to get in touch with the president,’ he thought.  
they walked alone on the beach, their footprints comfortably distant, the moon’s reflection their light and guide.  
***  
“Turnips!” said the chief.


	3. dentures, with optional theremin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> my take on "love in the time of cholera"

michael cera had been sitting in one spot for a very long time. as long as he could remember, if he thought about it. he had kept himself distracted with any number of small amusements; an eclectic variety of peanut butter jars, dirty clothes, cloth napkins, books, movies, video games, youtubes, and pages ripped out of the kama sutra lay within a generous arms reach. he pursued that which he put beneath his nose: now a calendar he had collected in the 8th grade and used not at all to plan his schedule offered him school spirit. he twanged its plastic spiral binding and flipped through the pages, looking for the comedically illustrated factoids that decorated monday’s margins. he wondered idly about god.

“i’m hungry,” he thought. he looked around. there wasn’t any food nearby, except some walnuts that had probably gone bad by now, if walnuts could even go bad. he didn’t like walnuts, as it happened. he thought about drinking a glass of water, but then he thought, “no. i’m not thirsty. i’m hungry.”

he didn’t have a head ache per se, but he wasn’t honestly sure whether that was because he didn’t have a head ache, or because he was convincing himself he didn’t have a headache. his head hurt a little bit.

he turned the page. a man with an overlarge nose who was both shouting and running/excited illustrated that “the wild muskrat can grow up to four and a half feet in diameter.” michael cera scratched his head. he became aware that he was in an uncomfortable position, and he moved a little, and then put another pillow behind his back. he wondered whether his reaction to the word ‘muskrat’ was the standard reaction one has to the word ‘muskrat’, or whether perhaps it was different in some way. he scratched his head again, while thinking about opening the window. he decided not to open the window.

the heater was on, even though it was mid day and too warm. it was on its lowest setting, though. it made a frustrating whine all the time. michael cera wondered what he could do to cover up the whine. he remembered that he was wearing headphones, but no music was playing. he scratched his ear under the headphones. then he took off the headphones.

he thought about sleeping, but then he got bored. he thought, “wouldn’t it be funny if…” but it wasn’t funny.

just then, prohibition struck. it was the 1920s, or whenever, and he couldn’t drink beer any more. when he tried to drink beer, instead, it was apple juice. michael cera didn’t mind, because apple juice was tasty in the 1920s. it was not like today, where they press the apples with the skin still on, and sometimes there’s bits of stem, it was cold, pure-pressed apple juice made of cold american apples. the temperature of the apples was important, michael knew, because if the apples got too warm, then they’d have to be reprimanded. he pictured a schoolteacher telling some apples “don’t get so warm!” and thought about maybe how there could be a joke about “fresh,” like “don’t get fresh with me!” to the apples. his imagination was in the style of the factoid cartoons he had been reading, which was a kind of style designed to imitate the quick, sketchy look that lets you know that what you’re looking at is a cartoon, perfected by some graphic designer who got paid not because he could draw quick and sketchy, but because he could draw like he could draw quick and sketchy. or else, it wasn’t because he could draw quick, but because he could draw sketchy.

michael cera reflected on how handy it was for the spiral planner to arrive prefixed with marginalia. he thought about a book he had read that someone else had read before. whoever it was had taken a pencil and marked up certain passages, underlining bits, or writing notes in the margins. they had written with a quick, sophisticated script that michael cera couldn’t always decipher. he thought one of the notes in the margin was a shakespeare quote, but he wasn’t sure. the book had been about consciousness, and how the brain manages to be conscious. it took a logical positive/materialist approach, saying that everything was matter, and that there was no way he was in a simulation. michael had only read of the first chapter, while he was pooping.

the apple juice was tasty, but it wasn’t food, and his hunger had returned with a vengeance, perhaps tantalized by the taste of sugar. he crept outward, until he reached the moon.

“hello, moon,” said michael cera, a verbal nod to a preverbal animism. he cleared his throat. he wasn’t there for pleasantries. he was there to see his good friend and shopkeeper, pardi gras kaepernick.

“pardon me, pardi gras,” he said as he entered, to the accompaniment of the bell atop the door frame. “i port no party, nor portent of parlay. my purpose, paradoxical, is purely propositional. though poor and parsimonious, i’m prepared to part with proper purse. i proffer parcels of parchment in purchase of parsnips, pork, parfait, of which per partake i’ll peer from purgatory, paradise, perhaps…” he looked away.

he got the food he wanted after talking to pardi gras some more, and then he went outside the shop to get back to his moon buggy. unfortunately, his moon buggy had been ticketed by the lunar meter maids, because he had parked it parallel a poor porsche, performing as partition to proper pavement. par for the course, he supposed.

“if only i hadn’t talked to pardi gras some more!” thought michael cera. “then i wouldn’t have to pay this moon ticket which costs five hundred thousand moon dollars and a million.” so michael cera had to get a job on the moon or else he was stuck there.

he went to the first store. “what do you sell?” he asked.

“oh, we sell hats,” they said.

“oh! a hat store!” said michael cera.

“yes,” they said.

“okay, i think i can sell hats,” said michael cera.

“wait, what?” said the hat store, but it was the person inside the hat store, who owned it.

“then michael cera showed them the help wanted sign he had brought from outside the store.”

“hey! no outside food or drink!” said the hat store manager.

“no, it’s a sign,” said michael cera. “don’t you know a sign when you see one?”

“what’s a sign?” asked the hat store.

“because you need someone to work for you. and i need someone to work for,” he said.

“oh yeah!” they said. “that’s perfect then. you can start right away if you can.”

“it’s a match made on the moon,” said michael cera.

“i was just about to say that before you did, but i decided not to,” said the moon hat maker.

“i guess that’s why they call me,” “michael cera,” said michael cera.

“why?”

“because i’m the funny one,” he said.

“ok, but being funny isn’t enough to sell hats. haven’t you seen that curb episode where larry david tries to sell cars? that guy’s a riot, but if you want to sell hats, there’s some things you just are gonna have to know.”

“that’s ok,” said michael cera. “there’s some things you just are gonna have to know is my middle name.”

“really?” asked the hat store.

“no,” said michael cera. “i would never tell you my full true name, because that would give you power over me. luckily, i don’t even know my name. that’s why they call me,” “michael cera,” he explained.

“oh i was wondering,” said the hat store.

“but also,” said michael cera.

“yeah?” said the manager.

“you thought that ‘there’s some things you just are gonna have to know’ was my middle name for a second there.”

“i did,” agreed the manager.

“i really had you going there,” said michael cera.

“i guess you did.”

“for a second there,” added michael cera.

the hat store was crowded but not with hats, with people. there were people everywhere in the store. there were people under the hats. there were people hanging on to the ceiling fan. there were people crouching up among the hat boxes stacked on the rafter like shelves. that one was dressed like neutral milk hotel. i mean, he was dressed like clockwork orange. there were people over the hats.

“during that time,” continued michael cera, “the time during which i had you convinced that what it was that i was saying as pertaining to and concerning what it is that and/or which comprises the moniker itself known as my middle or ‘median’ name was, despite improbable context and impossible coincidence, true and factual as i stated it, the said same stuff now revealed to have been totally — not in part, but totally — fictitious, that is, make believe, that is, non- and perhaps even irrepresentational of the world as she stands, that is, a no-good, bald-faced, flat-out lie (although, in my defense, a lie stated for the sole purpose of humor, stated with no malicious intent (unless it is that you consider the conclusion of these observations, the implication i’m driving at to itself be malicious, in which case you may find the set up — a harmless jest, i assure you — to have been of equal design, and which consideration i’m afraid i can do nothing to shake you of, for should you choose to adopt it i will surely be listened to no more, except to say that that position, once assumed, necessitates a view of the prior circumstances in such a way as to bring about that same position, that is, it is unshakeable, as its negation is unshakeable, and i urge you, unless you are fully confident in your ability to maintain some grotesque superposition of the positive and negative, to err on the side of trust, for down the other path lies a lonesomeness and despair that would bring pride to hell itself), during that time that i had you in my confidence, i could have sold you a hat.”

“maybe,” said the shopkeep, “but let me give you a quiz. what size is my head?”

“trick question,” said michael cera.

“very good!” said the shop keeper, quite apparently impressed. “you have natural talent, son. you will one day be a great hat salesman, i can tell. i like the way that you are able to think on your feet, and do improvisation.”

“thanks,” said michael cera. “bro,” he added.

so michael cera found a job. and that’s the story of how michael cera found a job, and he became the best hat salesman the world has ever known, even though he was on the moon still.

now, about this time joe dimaggio, who hadn’t really done anything interesting yet, he started doing some things that were interesting to our story. because joe dimaggio was part cyborg, due to a government agency that had turned him into a cyborg. it wasn’t shady. they had given him a second chance at a normal life, after he had lost many of his limbs in a baseball accident. i won’t say more about the accident, except to say that it involved three wildly incongruous objects, only one of which you’d expect to find in a baseball setting, and only one of which (the same one) seems like it could be even a little bit dangerous, at least at first blush. ok, i’ll tell you. one of the objects was a starbuck’s latte and/or frapuccino, perhaps with the size specified in starbuck’s terms. “grande” or whatever. doesn’t sound very dangerous, does it? but then you realize that starbuck’s wasn’t even invented, then yet, and so it would have to be from the future, or very valuable, or both. and then the pieces start to come together.

what joe dimaggio had been doing had been shooting sea gulls in the park when they’d come try to eat his sandwich or some bread crumbs that he tossed around for them. he had a laser that slid out of a panel on his wrist which slid back to let the laser out. then a little turret would emerge and he could aim at things like birds by making a fist and pointing it at them. it was a laser turret.

the lasers joe dimaggio shot were green lasers, because those are the most powerful lasers of all. the birds didn’t stand a chance! except for crows, joe dimaggio hated all birds. but don’t ask him about it! he was very sensitive about hating all birds.

the other thing that joe dimaggio was doing, other than shooting birds with a laser turret that emerged from his wrist and shot green lasers, was wearing sun glasses AND, more important for our tale, he was being a cyborg. he could do this passively.

scope blue wasn’t canon anymore, but if he was, we would have learned that he had been transformed into a cyborg by his nemesis slim trespass, and also his mother was a cyborg, and slim trespass could control his actions using a remote control made out of weathervanes and shuttlecocks.

meanwhile, though, michael cera was drinking coffee in a coffee shop. the coffee shop was a local coffee shop that he had found one day when he had said “today, i will find a coffee shop,” presumably in response to the dearth of coffee shops in his life up to and including that moment. so the coffee shop was a sort of remedy for him, and it had good coffee, too.

“yes, um, i would like a, um, regular coffee, please,” said michael cera, ordering coffee.

“yes, okay,” said the coffee girl. “i will get you your regular coffee just as soon as i see some form of payment, and at least two forms of id.”

“oh, i left my passport at home,” said michael cera. it was true that he had left it at home. but, why would he leave it at home when he was a regular at this coffee shop and knew that they required at least two forms of id in order to sell coffee? well, that was because, if you’re wondering, he wanted to talk to the barista for longer today than he would have got to normally.

“ok,” said the barista. “well, frank, i know you.” she called him frank because he had used a fake name the first time he went to the coffee shop, because he didn’t want special treatment just for being michael cera. then, when it became a thing for him to go to the coffee shop, he couldn’t change his name back to usual, so he stuck with frank. it was better for everyone. “but do you have, like, a utility bill or something?”

“oh, yeah, i do,” said michael cera, who had come prepared for just such a request. then the waitress knew something was up, because who carries utility bills around with them.

“michael cera,” she said. “why do you have a utility bill with you?”

“oh, um,” said michael cera, still looking through his fanny pack.

“michael cera, were you expecting to have forgotten your passport today?”

“no it’s just, um,” michael cera couldn’t bear to maintain eye contact with her, even though she was smiling playfully at having caught him in the lie. “see, i was — there was a problem with the bill, today, because, um.” he shifted his weight back and forth on his feet. he had found the bill, and held the torn envelope across his body. “because they said it was one amount, but” quickly he tried to remember how utility bills worked, or what they were even for, “haha, you know, i’d have to run the dishwasher, like, eight times to rack up those sorts of, um, charges.” good one, michael. the dishwasher is a utility.

“ok, michael cera.” said the maitre d’, biting her lip, and looking up at him from below her eyelashes. michael cera hadn’t noticed how many eyelashes she had before. “i’ll call you when your ordinary coffee is ready.”

michael ran to the bathroom, his bladder about to give up, and splashed some water on his face. but when he looked in the mirror, he noticed that his cheeks were very red. in fact, he thought, they might even count as cherry red, which he knew was one of the telltale symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning. his bladder forgotten, he ran back into the restaurant.

“EVERYONE OUT!” he shouted, huffing and puffing.

the assortment of students and studiers, typers and talkers, looked up at the wild man emerging from the bathroom with a crooked mustache. (michael cera wore a fake mustache to the establishment as part of his ‘frank’ disguise, but in his haste and sweat, the right side began to slip.)

“EVERYONE!” he shouted again. “this means you! there’s a gas leak somewhere in this building, i know it! and we’re all slowly suffocating and/or dying!”

this roused the rabble, and they began shouting and clamoring over one another in pursuit of the door. a high pitched scream shocked the air. coffee and tea was spilled upon the parched linoleum, now decorated by the legs of upturned tables. a glass broke. michael cera’s coffee was left unfinished, and espresso continued to pour into the cup marked ‘frank’.

stephanie, the barista from earlier who had sort of flirted with michael cera, found him outside, puffing asthmatically, hands on his knees.

“i’m so glad… i managed… to get everyone… out of there…” he said.

“michael—“ said stephanie, but he cut her off with a finger held up to ask for ‘one second’.

“in time.” he added, in time.

“michael,” said stephanie. “are you all right? what happened in there?” michael appreciated that she used the proper ‘all right’ as opposed to the less correct ‘alright’.

“i saw incontrovertible evidence of carbon monoxide, you know, ‘the silent killer’, quiet and tasteless,” he said.

stephanie took a step back. “um, michael,” she said, the care leaving her voice exponentially. “carbon monoxide is not the thing most people mean when they say ‘gas’”

michael looked up at her. “don’t you think i know that? don’t you think? i know that!” he said. “i’ll have you know, since apparently you don’t, that i’ve actually taken an entire class on gas and how it can kill you.”

stephanie looked at him. she was cute in her glasses. “is this, like, a holocaust thing?” she asked. (frank’s given last name was schwarz.)

michael tore off his mustache, and threw it on the ground. stamping his foot, he commanded, “no, stephanie. this is not a holocaust thing. this is a safety thing. did you know that every year, people die from gas leaks that could have been prevented?”

“ok,” said stephanie, “even if that meant the thing that you think it means, there was still no reason to cause a panic. carbon monoxide victims die slowly, drifting off into sleep before peacefully suffocating. everyone in the shop was conscious. we could have collected our belongings, and filed out peacefully. honestly, we could probably have just opened a window.”

then michael cera realized something. “oh my god,” he muttered. “is anyone asleep?! was anyone asleep in there?! DID I WAKE ANYONE UP?!” he shouted and asked, turning to the dazed patrons crowding around the store’s door.

“no,” someone said. “nobody was asleep.”

relieved, michael cera turned back to stephanie, until he realized the next thing. “oh my god,” he realized. “that just means they DIDN’T WAKE UP! quick, stephanie, pee on my shirt.”

“…what?” said stephanie.

“i need you to pee on my shirt, so that it’s safe for me to go back in there.”

“i’m not sure…” said stephanie.

“it’s the only way,” said michael cera. “i know it’s a nice shirt, but if you don’t pee on it, i won’t be able to breathe.”

“i think that’s mustard gas,” said someone who had apparently been listening, now and in history class.

michael cera turned toward the interlocutor, blinked once, meaningfully, then turned back to stephanie. he held out the front of his shirt. “now, stephanie! you need to pee on my shirt, and you need to do it now!”

and that’s when the building exploded.

most of the crowd lay on the ground, dazed, but uninjured. shrieks and shards battered the air all around. michael cera covered his face, and could only hope that stephanie had the good sense to do the same. “oh my GOD,” someone shouted.

a moment later, they heard the first sirens. michael cera opened his eyes. the cars parked nearby would need cleaning, and at least one person was bleeding, but by and large everyone looked okay. thank god, he thought. thank god that nobody was injured.

but wait! stephanie! where was she? in all the confusion, michael cera had lost track of her. had she disappeared? was she the intended target all along?

no. there she was, still on the ground, but sitting up. dazed, but okay. michael cera went over to her. “stephanie!” he said. “i’m so glad you’re okay!”

stephanie blinked. she couldn’t see well without her glasses, but she recognized frank. “michael!” she said. “michael! michael, i’m so sorry. i’m so sorry michael.”

“whatever for?” he asked.

“i’m so sorry i didn’t pee on your shirt, michael. i should have trusted you.”

“don’t worry, stephanie. all that’s in the past, now.” he hugged her. a yellow volkswagen beetle drove by.

“michael,” stephanie asked, “why did you think there was carbon monoxide, michael?”

“well,” michael cera said, “when i went in the bathroom and looked in the mirror, i noticed that my cheeks were very red, which is one of the telltale symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning.”

at this, stephanie felt herself start to get flush. “michael,” she said, “that wasn’t carbon monoxide poisoning. you were blushing!” “i made michael cera blush,” she thought, and she smiled to herself, in her thin grey sweater, with the sleeves that went over the palms of her hands.

SOME TIME LATER:  
“yes, we are married now,” michael cera was telling the reporter from the LA Times, as she scribbled notes into a miniature, spiral bound legal pad, and wore overlarge glasses, thick in rim and frame. her blonde hair framed her wide cheekbones, and while she didn’t wear a bow-tie, her outfit somehow made the absence of a bow-tie notably apparent, but whether the effect was playboy bunny, or annie hall, michael cera could not decide. “and what a ceremony. wow. not to toot my own horn, but i sure do know how to get married. right, honey?”

stephanie was just then returning with a tray carrying a tea pot, three mugs, and an assortment of natural and artificial sweeteners, and, after placing the ingredients on the coffee table, sat beside her husband on the couch.

“yes, it was a lovely ceremony. a lovely reception,” she said.

“and the food! terrific food. we had stephanie’s brother cater for us — well, not him, but his company. the fish —“ he turned to stephanie, “did you have the chicken or the fish?”

“the chicken, honey,” she said.

he turned back to the reporter. “she had the chicken. she had the chicken. well, i had the fish, and — that fish — i cannot describe it. mwahh,” he kissed his fingers and spread them, but whether the gesture was sincere, or in parody of some imagined italian chef, none could say. stephanie hoped the latter.

the reporter, amused regardless, set her mug back on the tray to jot down another note in her pad. “sounds lovely,” she said. “i wish i could have been there.”

“and this, — ” michael cera went on, heedless “what is it he called it? the salad of the tomatoes, and… some kind of leaf?” he looked at stephanie, hopeful.

“‘quinoa salad with dry farmed tomatoes and shredded baby arugula’,” she recited, her brother’s cooking and this conversation both familiar ground.

“that’s right,” said michael cera. “that’s right. did you get that?” he asked the reporter. “it had these slivers of olives — i’m not sure what kind they were, but they were not as briny as normal olives — and pistachios. pistachios, the nut! you wouldn’t think pistachios would go well in a salad, would you?”

a pause while the reporter realized he wanted her to respond. “no,” she tried. “i wouldn’t.”

michael cera gave a single nod, and continued. “hell,” he said, “you wouldn’t think a salad would be good at all, would you? but this salad. if you can even call it a salad. can a salad be so tasty? and have chicken in it?” he looked as though earnestly seeking the answer to a question he had just now discovered.

another pause. “um,” said the reporter. she looked at stephanie.

“well, there’s caesar salad, dear,” said stephanie.

“caesar salad! that’s right! and cobb salad, of course. and a club sandwich! though, that’s a sandwich and not a salad, come to think of it.” he lapsed into silence.

the reporter, whose name was claribell lockhart, took another sip of tea, and looked at her notes. as yet, she had written only a brief description of michael cera’s clothing, a note that it was hard to remember that stephanie’s hair wasn’t yet grey, and the word ‘salad’ underlined three times. she looked up again, brushing her hair behind her ear, and saw that michael cera had closed his eyes, and was seated straight up in perfect silence, even his breathing nigh undetectable. she sat uncomfortably for a minute longer. “um, michael cera?” she said, but was greeted only with a deep and purposeful breath.

she looked questioningly at stephanie. “what do i do?” she mouthed. stephanie turned her palms up in a shrug. “i don’t know,” she replied.

“michael cera?!” this time a bit louder. again, the same deep and purposeful breath. “um, sir? i wanted to talk to you about your upcoming movie?”

michael cera inhaled deeply, but on the exhale, he whined “moooovieeee.”

“yes, um. the amy schumer movie? she wrote it,” said claribell.

michael cera’s posture had been steadily declining, his back now curved and almost resting against the couch, but at the name ‘amy schumer,’ he sat bolt upright, and again inhaled. “schuuuuuuumerrrrrrrr,” he whined.

“that’s right,” said the reporter. “um, should i come back later? i can come back later if that would be better.”

michael said nothing. stephanie took a long sip of tea.

“michael?” asked claribell.

another deep inhale, and as he let out a long, high-pitched “miiiiiiiichaaaaaaaael,” not just his lungs, but the actor’s entire body seemed to deflate, and he sank deep into the couch, and began to snore.

standing up, stephanie gestured for claribell to follower her into the kitchen, and the reporter did so, closing her little yellow book, and bringing her mug of tea with her, her curt steps echoing on the hardwood floors.

once in the safety and relative luminosity of the well-fenestrated, southwest facing kitchen, stephanie turned to the reporter, and claribell noticed the woman’s eyes were heavy. furthermore, when stephanie spoke, her voice had a strange strained quality, like she was trying to sing a note outside her range. these were the clues that led claribell to conclude that stephanie was on the edge of tears, and her heart went out to the young wife. she thought to offer a tissue, but had left her purse in the other room.

“he’s been like —“ stephanie managed, keeping her voice low, and monotone, but otherwise doing an admirable job of hiding her distress. “i don’t know. he’s — i don’t know how it got like this. i don’t know what happened.”

claribell, usually a profound assessor of character and emotion, was beginning to realize that she was out of her depth. “when did it— when did it start?” she asked.

stephanie looked at her with big eyes. “it started— i was pregnant. maybe you read about it?”

suddenly claribell realized. where was the baby? “oh my god, mrs. cera…” she said, “stephanie, i’m so sorry.”

stephanie paused, taken aback. “what?” she blinked.

“the baby, didn’t you—” claribell was saying. “did you, you know…”

“miscarry?” asked stephanie. “lol, no, miss lockhart. the baby’s fine. he’s sleeping upstairs, now.”

“oh,” said claribell. “oh, i just thought…”

“you’ve made it very clear what you thought, miss lockhart.” where before stephanie had been warm, on the edge of opening up about something, now her every action was delivered with the deliberacy of the offended. “but, no. i gave birth to a healthy baby girl on apr— june 19th of this past year. we named her annabelle, after my grandmother.”

“i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean— i’m sorry. i just assumed, from what you were saying.”

“that’s right, miss lockhart. you assumed. and one knows what happens when one assumes, does one not?”

claribell stared at stephanie, dumbfounded.

“one gets kicked out of my house,” explained stephanie. “yes, miss lockhart, or whoever you may be, i think it’s best if you leave.”

“but—“ began claribell. “my interview…?”

“yes, i think you’d better go now,” said stephanie. “yes, i think it would be best if you go. i think it’s high time you depart. would this to have happened on friendlier terms, i’d be saying ‘see you later, alligator’ at this juncture, but as it is, i’m afraid i can only bring myself to wish you a ‘goodbye.’” all the while advancing on claribell, using the politics of personal space to herd her through the dining room, and to the foyer.

“i’m sorry—“ claribell tried again.

“goodBYE, miss lockhart. and i grant you that valediction only inasmuch it is the minimum required for basic human decency. yes, you should certainly leave, i think. michael!” she called. “michael, honey!”

the call arrested the development of the current snore, and with a leap and a bound, michael was around the coffee table, and joining them in the foyer. “yes?” he asked, yawning his sleep away. “yes, what is it?”

“would you be so good as to show miss lockhart out?” she said sweetly. “she was just leaving,” she added emphatically toward the reporter.

“well, i—“ said miss lockhart.

“of course,” said michael cera. “now then, claribell. do you have all you came with?”

“there’s just a— just a bag, a purse, really. i left it in the living room.”

“right then. this way,” said michael cera, and led her to where the tea pot still steamed on its tray. stephanie grinned, a lady victorious, but michael seemed either not to see, or not to notice. claribell retrieved her bag, and they stepped outside, where she knelt for a moment to replace her shoes.

“did you ask her about the baby?” asked michael cera, to claribell’s surprise.

“what?” said claribell. “i mean, yes. yes, how did you know?”

“she gets like that when people ask her,” said michael cera. “that’s when she gets like that.” he let out a long sigh, and vacantly examined the view from his porch.

“what… happened?” asked claribell. “if you don’t mind me asking,” she hastened to add.

michael looked her up and down, as if seeing her for the first time, sizing her up. “no, i don’t mind,” he said. claribell noticed how fat his face looked, compared to the rest of his body.

“she was— it was about two years ago, now,” he said. “we had just moved into this house; i had just finished work on ‘arrested development 2: justifiable homicide’.”

claribell nodded. “yes, i remember that… film,” she said carefully.

“did you see it?” claribell nodded again. “you must have been the only one. honestly, it was terrible. i dunno whose idea it was to make a buddy cop movie with me and john travolta, but i hope they die a slow death.”

claribell let out a sigh of relief. “oh thank god,” she said. “for a second there, i was worried i was going to have to pretend to have liked it.”

“haha, yeah,” laughed michael cera, and claribell lockhart joined in, and they laughed together a moment, remembering some of the choice lines, such as ‘this must be what testicular cancer feels like!’. “it really was terrible, wasn’t it?” michael continued. “well, at least i got to meet john. he’s a great guy. real down to earth. taught me a lot about acting, even on a straight-to-dvd like that, he always gave it his all. always gave it one hundred percent.”

claribell smiled. this was what she had expected from the interview. here was the michael cera she had hoped to meet: the actor michael cera, talking about his roles; the celebrity michael cera, talking about his celebrity buddies. “wasn’t that the one where somebody ate a crew member’s face?”

michael paused, thinking. “oh, no!” he said. “you’re thinking of the michael richards movie… shoot, i wish i could remember the name. he plays a homeless man who gets talent scouted as a wig-model. yeah, though. michael richards ate some poor camera man’s face.”

“wow,” said claribell. “wow. i would have loved to have seen that.”

michael cera just nodded. “i’m sure it was a sight to behold,” he said. “anyway, it was around that time, about two years ago, that we found out that stephanie was pregnant. we were overjoyed, of course. everyone was happy: john travolta— we took him out to this wonderful french meal, bought a tremendous bottle of wine, and then stephanie didn’t drink any. john’s such a smart guy, he figured it out right away, and we told him right then we were making him godfather. oh it was a lovely evening.

“but it wasn’t to last. about a month later, stephanie started getting these weird ideas. she’d wake up, screaming, in the middle of the night. ‘what’s wrong?’ i’d say. she was having these dreams — really realistic, mind you — of a miscarriage. ‘it’s anxiety,’ i told her. ‘it’s nothing to worry about. the baby’s fine.’ no, it’s not anxiety, it felt real, she’d say. it felt real.

“the first time it happened, she was inconsolable. we went in to the hospital the next day, saying, please, i know it’s strange, but it would put us at ease to know that the baby is still okay. the hospital staff were great; they were all really helpful. ‘okay, we’ll do a sonogram,’ and they did, and there was the baby, there was annabelle. and stephanie wept to see her, tears of joy streaming down her face. i’ll never forget her smile that day as we went home. staring out the passenger window of my camaro, i kept glancing at her, just to see that smile again. it was so full of life, so happy, so content.”

without statement, they had begun walking to where claribell’s car was parked, around the corner. they walked slowly, to give themselves time. claribell, for her part, could have thought of her notebook, but did not.

michael cera continued. “that contentment, that joy, lasted not two weeks. her peace was broken by a recurrence of the dream. again, she woke up yelling ‘my baby! my baby,’ again, we went to the hospital first thing the next morning, and again, the doctor’s showed us that everything was okay. she grew flush with happiness that lasted the car ride home and into the next few days, but this time i could not enjoy her good mood — i had begun to worry.

“the third time she had the dream happened about a week later, during a mid-day nap. we didn’t go to the hospital right away — why bother them? — but, again, no matter what anyone said, she could not shake the feeling that the baby had died. ‘it’s dead,’ she would state plainly. ‘my baby is dead. i carry a corpse now, its tiny flesh rotting inside me.’ i started to fear for what she might do — if the baby wasn’t dead, as i hoped and suspected, what would happen if she tried to remove it? what if her delusion drove her to unconscionable action? after she spent three days marching around the house, telling any visitors ‘my baby is dead, and soon i will flush its entrails down with my stool,’ i broke down. i took her to the hospital. i told the doctor what was going on. i nearly cried on his shoulder, ‘i don’t want my baby to die, please doc, don’t let my baby die.’

“after that, she stayed in the hospital, and seemed perfectly happy to do so, the delusion forgotten. the doctor’s assured me they’d have someone look after her, but if i’m telling the truth, that was probably more for my benefit than hers. she brought the child to term — annabelle was born ten days early, but otherwise healthy, and will be…” he looked at the sky, “a year and four months next tuesday.”

they had reached the car, but claribell made no move to enter. “and the dreams…?” she asked michael.

“haven’t recurred,” he said. “or if they have, she hasn’t mentioned them. i hired a nurse to look after annabelle, and keep an eye on mrs. cera, but as far as anyone can tell, stephanie is a wonderful mother.”

“has she talked about what happened?” asked claribell.

michael nodded, once, sharply. claribell thought she saw a small wince. “well,” he said, “she’s sensitive about miscarriage, as you learned. but other than that, no, not at all. i used to bring it up, but she shuts down my attempts, or just deflects them, and i’ve given up trying. maybe it’s for the best.” he ran a hand through his hair.

“oh, michael, you poor thing,” thought claribell, but did not give the thought voice.

“anyway,” he was saying, “don’t write about any of this, okay? it’s enough stress as it is.” claribell nodded. “what do you need for your interview?”

“oh,” said claribell, just now remembering her purpose. “um, let’s see. she rummaged through her bag until she found the pad and a pen. “um,” she tapped her teeth with the pen. “okay. if you could just give me a word or two about the new movie?”

“totally,” said michael cera. “um, let’s see. the movie’s called ‘theremin, with optional dentures’. it’s sort of a psychological thriller with elements of the absurd. the whole thing takes place at sea, on a boat trying to find the wreck of the titanic. but for some reason, this scientific expedition is staffed not by explorers, but by society types who are more interested in their galas and openings than their stated goal.”

“why do they want to find the titanic?” claribell asked.

“they think there’s a bunch of money in it, that went down when the ship sank. it’s a sort of standard sunken treasure deal — there’s some gold or something that’s supposed to be at the bottom of the sea, the lost treasure of one of the voyagers on the original titanic. so there’s a big prize waiting for them. but what’s interesting in the movie is more what’s going on between these people, these society types, as they travel above the waves.” he paused for a moment, and swallowed. “like, my character — i play a journalist, who’s there because his magazine sent him to do a feature piece. so i’m kind of removed from the goings on, but i’m trying to find out what it’s all about. so i interview this woman — this actress — about the ship, and everything, trying to get a feel for what that world is like, you know?”

claribell nodded.

“and at first she doesn’t really have time for me — she’s from another world — but i interview her more, and we start to fall for each other. so there’s like a romance story that goes on. even though she’s married, but she doesn’t really like her wife.”

“you mean husband?” asked claribell.

michael looked at her blankly. “what did i say?” he asked.

claribell bit her tongue. “go on,” she said.

“yeah, so it’s a fairly standard movie, i guess,” said michael cera. “but that’s only until one of the crew members turns out to be an evil magician, and he performs these rituals that summon eldritch horrors from beyond the deep. turns out he needed to be in the location where a ship had sank — something about the word ‘deep’ — and he had concocted the whole story about the sunken treasure in order to get people to organize the expedition in the first place. so that’s it.”

“what do you mean ‘that’s it.’ like, everybody on the ship dies?”

“no,” laughed michael cera. “these aren’t the sort of horrors that eat a ship.” he grinned, showing his canines. “these are, like, older gods. these things eat planets. like, these are the things where you only hear about them because they arrange for worlds to contain the instructions for their summoning. like, nobody who has seen them has survived. i mean, we’re talking enormous, tentacled balls of string whose gaze is synonymous with total destruction. they don’t even have wants, just — capabilities.”

“huh, okay. do you have any funny stories from on the set?”

“yes, here is one: it was washing up day, and bill murray needed extra soap — that guy always needs soap. he uses so much soap — and so he was saying ‘hey, i need some soap!’ and then i thought about how when you’re taking a shower, and someone turns on the sink, and you have to yell, like, ‘hey, turn off the sink!’”

“yes, michael, that’s a funny story about the sink.”

“well, i think it’s really about the soap,” said michael cera.

“i guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree about this one,” said claribell, the reporter. she was getting antsy. it was time to go and it was getting dark, but she hadn’t found what she was looking for, yet. and something about the way michael cera had told the story about the movie had got her wondering: just what was she looking for, anyway. was it the story of a career? for it felt unlikely that a piece about “theremin, with optional dentures” would have any impact on a media-saturated populace. she had to get out of this line of work. predatory. it was predatory. and why did she feel so… unfulfilled?

just then, michael cera got a text message. “hold on,” he said. “i’m getting a text message on my iphone. just give me one second to respond to this text message on my iphone.” he held up the phone to type on it, showing claribell the apple logo on the back of the phone. the burnished silver, or whichever color it comes in these days, looked good against the oranging sky. the text message was from john travolta. “oh hold on,” said michael cera. “it’s from john travolta, or as i like to call him, john travolta. want to know what his name is in my phone? this is really funny.”

“ok, what?” said claribell.

“don’t you want to guess?” asked michael cera.

“ok, let me guess,” said claribell. “um, um, is it, um, john travolta!”

“good guess, that’s very close, but it’s not quite john travolta. his name in my phone is john travolte, with an ‘e’. that’s because i don’t know how to spell.”

“that’s not what i would have guessed,” said claribell. “i would have guessed you’re a great speller, michael cera.”

“thanks,” said michael cera, as he stared out across the town, feeling kind of like how batman must feel when he’s perched atop a gotham roof, surveilling the city, above and slightly behind it all. michael cera’s weird nose and chin were silhouetted against the setting sun, and the downtown skyline. a plane passed far enough overhead to be described as “lazy”. “look!” said michael cera, and pointed to the sky in the east. “the first star.”

claribell turned, and stepped closer to michael to see where he was pointing. “where—“ she began.

“right there,” said michael. “it’s very faint. there’s the clouds over there, and it’s right above them, in the middle.”

“i don’t see it,” claribell said, but then just then she saw it. “oh wait! i see it!” she shifted feet. “oh, it’s beautiful. but, michael, i don’t think that’s a star.”

“oh is it an airplane?” asked michael cera.

“no, michael. not an airplane. i think it’s a planet. i think that’s venus.” she was pointing now, too, but looking up at michael cera from where she stood, in front of him and to the right, close now.

michael’s eyes were still on the star, but he looked down to meet her gaze when he caught her glance in his periphery. claribell breathed in a little, as her eyes grew wide, and michael dropped his chin almost to his chest, but kept his eyes — looking up now — on hers. they held for a moment.

“you’re sure it’s a… planet?” asked michael cera.

“i… i think so,” said claribell, and shyly licked her lips. she felt herself start to blush. the kiss was there, but would they act on it? they could see it, they both could see it, and they both knew the other could see it, and that they both knew. it was common knowledge at this point. the tension had been built, i’m just gonna tell you, to the point where there was the possibility for a kiss. the circumstances were perfect, really, venus being the goddess of love, and all that.

michael noticed his arm was almost around claribell already. had he put it there? no, it was more of a drifting kind of situation. either way, it was poised perfectly to grasp her, to hold her strongly by the small of her back and pull her close. it would be but one motion and then —

“i’m…” michael cera said, beginning to pull away, and then claribell was on her toes, and her hands were on his cheeks, and her lips —

and michael cera, surprised for but a moment, found his arms again and then did wrap them around her back, so that the two bodies pressed close together, as above them venus twinkled.


End file.
